


It's Just Blood Under the Bridge

by tastyweeds



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd-centric, Faerghus (Fire Emblem), Faerghus deserves its own warning, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Tragedy of Duscur (Fire Emblem), Teen Angst, Tragedy of Duscur (Fire Emblem), those emotionally awkward early teenage years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastyweeds/pseuds/tastyweeds
Summary: The king is dead. Faerghus teeters on the brink of chaos. The kingdom's future leaders are left reeling as the world they knew comes apart at the seams — and they're only teenagers.How do you help each other rebuild when you aren't sure what's broken? In a culture that prizes violence and isolation, four friends struggle to cut a different path.-----Updates every 2 weeks, approximately
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 114
Kudos: 38





	1. The Dreadful Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> No fandom knowledge required, though I'd recommend [a map for geographic relations](https://serenesforest.net/three-houses/pre-release/world-map/). Blue Lions/AM spoilers and dead doves abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, I'll make additional notes about warnings for each chapter on a case-by-case basis. This one's chock-full of war violence, apart from a section that begins with "Two days before..."

### The Dreadful Enemy

#### 1176, Harpstring Moon, fourth week

_Get up, boy. You keep us waiting._

Pain tore through the numbing darkness. Facedown in trampled earth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd tried opening his eyes. On his left, he could see dirt packed around his face, but on his right, where open air should be, he was blind.

Panicked, the young prince struggled into a crouch. Pain lanced through his back, his side, his head. He gasped for breath and retched, spitting red into his hands. He couldn’t taste his own blood. Strange.

Hadn’t it been midmorning? Why was it so dark? Where was his lance? He felt around him before remembering that his father had forbade him carrying arms during their journey north to Duscur.

Two days before the Faerghus Kingdom’s diplomatic mission embarked, four young friends perched on a broad stone stairway above the palace training yard, watching Felix’s older brother, Glenn, spar with other knights in the Blaiddyd family’s royal guard. The teens had been inseparable since reuniting in the capitol city of Fhirdiad for the first time in months, an effort requiring countless covert letters and tactical schemes to orchestrate overlapping trips by the Gautier, Fraldarius and Galatea households.

“If you ask me, King Lambert’s making a mistake keeping this party exclusive. A man with my good looks who knows his way around the sharp end of a lance is diplomatic gold. Someone who can charm those Duscur noblewomen and intimidate the lords without breaking a sweat? They’d sign any treaty the king proposed,” Sylvain Jose Gautier said, running his fingers through his thick red locks with a flourish.

“You’re fifteen, hardly a man, your lance skills are sloppy, and the only place we’re going is home with our useless fathers.” Felix Hugo Fraldarius scowled as a glob of oil dripped off the blade he polished, landing squarely on the toe of his suede boot. Glenn had gifted his younger brother a battered but rare silver sword for his birthday, and Felix had spent months restoring it. “Diplomacy’s a waste of time and duller than that mind of yours. But have fun with your real friends, Dima.”

Ingrid Brandl Galatea and Dimitri glanced at each other. They’d heard Glenn promise Felix weeks earlier that _of course_ he could tag along _if_ he bested his older, battle-tested brother in a training match. The undersized Fraldarius had haunted the sparring rings ever since, skipping meals unless Sylvain physically dragged him away. The siblings’ constant, imbalanced fights were taking a toll. Felix looked even more wan than usual, and the tight, careful buns he used to hold his long, black hair in place during fights had grown rather unkempt.

The previous night, Dimitri had accidentally slapped Felix a little too hard on the back while joking around in the library. Felix took a sharp breath as color drained from his face; he excused himself and gingerly walked away.

Ingrid directed a longing gaze at the candied fruit she’d smuggled into the reading room, then sighed and rose to follow him. Dimitri reached for her snack, which happened to be his favorite.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, smacking his hand. He sat back obediently. As soon as she was out of sight, the prince swiped the closest few from the pile and wolfed them down, then reassembled the remainder to look undisturbed.

Dimitri had been thrilled as his height shot up the previous year, but it heralded a host of challenges. Never mind his clumsiness and aching bones; he had no idea how to control the physical power coursing through him, and finding time to speak with the only man who shared their Crest was difficult, even for the son of a king.

Ingrid returned to the library a short while later and found Dimitri hiding behind a pile of dusty tomes about the Crescent Moon War. She rolled her eyes.

“You know I can tell you ate them, right?”

Dimitri put up his hands in surrender. “I am merely exercising my authority as your future king.”

She swatted him again. “King or not, you better buy me more tomorrow.”

“Is Felix okay?”

“He’ll be fine. I cornered Sylvain in the hall and threatened to tell both of the girls he’s courting about each other unless he made Felix rest in bed tonight. When I left, Syl was playing nursemaid to the kingdom’s surliest invalid.”

“Did I hurt him?” Dimitri kept his gaze low, studying his hands.

She paused, her sharp green eyes weighing the answer. “Technically, yes, BUT—” she sped up as Dimitri cringed, “only because he looks like he’s been arm wrestling a wyvern. How many times has Glenn let him spar this week?”

“Too many. I asked Glenn to ease up, but you know how those two are.”

“I do, all too well. They’re inseparable when they aren’t at each other’s throats. To be honest, I’m irritated with both of them. It was a silly girl’s dream, but I’d hoped Glenn and I would spend more time together while I was here.”

She popped a candied orange peel into her mouth and picked up a collection of chivalric tales, considering the cover.

“Four years’ difference feels like a lifetime to me. Glenn’s traveled to so many places I’ve never been and seen things I can’t imagine. He may be even less tactful than Felix, but he knows what matters to him — who he is, why he fights. Sometimes he feels like a knight from one of these stories, not the man I’m meant to marry.

“When I’m his age, will I be anywhere near as sure of myself?” Ingrid paused, twisting a lock of blonde hair between two fingers. She made a bitter face at the book. “How could I be, when my tale’s already written?”

Dimitri kept quiet. Between Felix’s moods and Sylvain’s constant clowning, he took Ingrid’s steady presence for granted. Like Dimitri, she kept her feelings close. But while he had no idea what it was like to be promised to a stranger from the moment you were born, he understood watching life stretch out ahead on a path set by others. The older he grew, the more he chafed at how powerless he felt. How could he overlook their similarities?

He realized she might interpret his silence as disapproval and fumbled for a response, but he wasn’t brave enough to voice his own doubts out loud. “I’m sorry. For all of it. At minimum, I should have seen this coming. It isn’t fair to you. Perhaps my father would be open to reassigning Glenn to the palace instead of attending our family in Duscur. Your family still plans to stay until we return?”

“Thank you, but I can’t think of a single thing that would make Glenn more miserable than being kept home.”

Ingrid returned the book to its shelf and straightened her shoulders. “It’s late. I better get back before my mother comes looking for me. You, me, Felix — maybe we should be more like Sylvain and not take life so seriously. Ugh, don’t ever tell him I said that. Let’s just try to ‘enjoy our youth’ as my father constantly reminds me.” She turned to go, then paused and looked back, a question in her eyes. “It’s not me, is it? Does everything feel harder to you lately?”

Dimitri stood and stretched, knocking over a tower of books in the process. He gestured at the mess strewn across the floor. “No, I would say I have everything under complete control. Why do you ask?”

Ingrid giggled and returned to help him. They worked in silence for a moment. Ingrid cleared her throat. “You’re going to make a good king, Dimitri. Maybe even a great one. For what my opinion’s worth, anyway.”

Dimitri blushed. “It’s worth a lot, Ingrid. Glenn’s lucky to have you.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. They rose together and Dimitri pinched off the candle wick, plunging them into darkness. By now, they knew the room’s layout by heart.

“Good night, Your Majesty,” she called as they parted.

“Never call me that,” he begged.

“No promises. Royal or not, anyone who steals my food gets what they deserve.”

He walked away grateful that the night concealed his too-wide smile.

Back by the training yards, Dimitri edged closer to Felix and with extreme care nudged his knee against the smaller youth’s shoulder. “Remember how you knocked me out of the ring last week? Glenn’s the only other person who can do that. You will beat him soon, I’m sure of it.”

Felix kept his eyes on his sword. “Stop. I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity!” Dimitri rubbed his hands over his face. “Why can’t I say anything right around you?”

“Because you’re always wrong,” Felix snapped.

Dimitri bit back an angry retort. Instead, he put a tentative hand on Felix’s shoulder. “Fe, I’m sorry for hurting you yesterday.”

Felix jerked his shoulder away and shook his head in irritation. “I’m fine. And I don’t need your apology. Now get back before you break another one of my blades.”

Dimitri shrank into himself, unsure what he’d damaged this time or how to mend it. He let his chin-length blond hair hide his face. Some king he was going to be.

“Children, please, bickering in front of your elders is uncouth,” Sylvain said from across the stairs where he’d draped himself artfully over the balustrade.

“Don’t lecture them, Syl! You’re almost three years older than us and still the least mature,” Ingrid said. They launched into a verbal joust.

A moment later, Dimitri felt Felix lean back into his leg just enough to be noticeable. Felix’s eyes narrowed as he flicked his gaze over his shoulder, warning Dimitri not to acknowledge the gesture.

The prince flushed and swallowed hard, suppressing an unexpected rush of nerves. He suddenly had the urge to reach for a loose strand of Felix’s hair and tuck it back behind his ear — but he also wanted to keep all of his fingers attached. Instead, he held very still on the stone steps, half-listening to Sylvain and Ingrid goad each other across the wide stairway. Beyond the rings, some of his close friends from court waved in passing. Dimitri returned the gesture.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to spend time with your palace friends?” Felix asked quietly. “They must make better company than the three of us.”

Dimitri took a risk, sliding down a step to sit side-by-side. “No, I wouldn’t. When you’re not here, I see them every day, and they’ll be on the trip, too. This might be our last chance to be together until next year. I want to spend time with you, Fe. I wish I could make you believe me.”

“I know.”

In silence, Felix buffed away the last traces of oil with a spotless white cloth. He lifted the sword and evaluated it in the sunlight, scrutinizing the surface for errant smudges. “Let’s discuss something else unpleasant. Did Sylvain tell you that cur of a brother cut his horse’s girth this time?”

Sylvain had arrived at the palace looking much worse for the wear, face battered and clothing torn. As usual, the older boy had laughed it off and changed the subject. Dimitri reconsidered Sylvain’s abysmal performances in recent spars.

“Did he fall?”

Felix snorted. “Over a fence, no less. How that idiot keeps surviving Miklan’s attempts confounds me. After so many, he should see them coming. But he never does. Or he refuses to look.”

Felix turned to Dimitri, a tangle of emotions warring in his intense amber eyes. “He’s going to get himself killed, you know. Sooner or later.” He grasped Dimitri’s wrist, and the prince’s mouth went dry. “One stupid friend is enough. Control that brute strength of yours before it hurts you, too.”

“Hey, you two, quit looking so serious,” Sylvain said. He executed a mock bow, concealing a wince. “Fe, do join me and milady Ingrid for dinner. Let’s give His Highness time to prepare for his grand sojourn.”

Felix stood to follow Sylvain, arching his back like a cat while Dimitri tried not to watch. Instead, he glared at Syl. “Stop using my title already. You make me feel like my father.”

“Sure thing, Your Majesty,” Sylvain said and raced up the stairs to evade the wooden lance thrown halfheartedly behind him.

On the day of the trip, Felix followed his brother like a tiny storm cloud until Glenn threatened to hug him. The knight swept Ingrid off her feet and twirled her giggling in a circle. He murmured something her ear that made her blush, and she rose on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Dimitri said his goodbyes but couldn’t put much warmth into them; he was too frustrated by his father’s refusal to let him bring so much as a training weapon.

“A good leader models confidence at all times,” King Lambert said as he strode towards the royal contingent with his reluctant son trailing. “This is a friendly visit between future allies. It is also an opportune moment to remind some of Faerghus’s less enthusiastic nobles that reforms will happen, whether or not they participate. It conveys the wrong message if you and I travel the kingdom’s own roads armed to the hilt with battalions in our wake. With Glenn and a few of his best soldiers along, we will have no trouble dispatching any foolish rogues, and Gustave will join up with bowmen before we cross the mountains. We will be well-prepared without intimidating our hosts.”

Dimitri glanced at the carriage where his stepmother, Queen Consort Patricia, would make the journey guarded by a scant handful of semi-retired paladins. He knew it unwise to keep pressing but lost to the impulse.

“Father, I understand your position, but may I at least carry a blade if it is discreet? If something were to happen, I perhaps I might react faster than some of Stepmother’s companions.”

“Has Glenn’s tutelage advanced that far since I last observed you? I did not realize your skills now surpass the experience of the queen’s royal guards.” King Lambert looked sidelong at his son.

Dimitri flushed and studied his hands, which he much preferred to keep gloved in dark colors. They looked too big left bare, like they belonged to someone else.

The king paused to check his preferred horse’s tack, then turned to consider his only child. “You will be taller than I am by winter at this rate.”

Dimitri shrugged and kept his eyes low. A chuckle surprised him, and he glanced up to see the king smiling.

“Forgive me,” his father said. “I sometimes forget that you are only thirteen. You speak with such conviction about the foolish decisions of an old man who cannot see the world’s dangers.”

“Father, I did not mean —” Stupid, stupid Dimitri, challenging the kingdom’s most powerful man like a child.

“It is all right, Dima.” King Lambert grasped his son’s shoulders with an ageless strength that would crush most men. His eyes softened. “Believe it or not, I was young once myself. I admire your concern for our safety, my boy, truly. You have a selfless heart. When the time comes, you will make a good ruler.”

Dimitri quailed under the weight of his father’s words. They so rarely spoke about succession, he never felt comfortable with its implications. “Th—thank you, sir.”

“Mind: I said ‘when.’ You are not ready, nor am I as old as I seem to you and your friends — who are doing a very poor job at playing spies,” he said in the direction of several crates waiting to be loaded onto the supply wagons. Dimitri thought he heard Ingrid squeak in alarm. Sylvain popped his head over the tallest stack and waved.

The king winked. “Besides, I would not thank me yet. After two days on the road with Glenn as your companion, you may wish I had punished you by keeping you here. He never learned to hold his tongue around our family, but alas, his swordsmanship is without peer, so I expect you to bear the sting of any slights without complaint.

“Come, we must be on our way. Trust the queen to her contingent, son. Leave your lance at home. Let Duscur see the Blaiddyds for who we are, not who our enemies make us out to be.”

Dimitri nodded. “Of course, Father.”

The king clapped his back. “Do not be so keen to grow up fast, young lion,” he said, swinging up into the saddle. “Strong leaders cannot rely on weapons alone. With the Crest we bear, it is imperative to cultivate a steady temperament that can help you manage your physical power. Attend to the lessons of our diplomats, and let Gustave and Glenn manage the rest. We will be in good hands.”

_Glenn._ Back on the road to Duscur, Dimitri staggered to his feet. Where was Glenn? Where were his parents? Thick, black smoke filled the air as fires raged in all directions. He probed his face with his fingers and winced at the sting. He must have taken a blow somewhere above his right eye, which was sealed shut from swelling and dried blood, but there was no time to work it open. He started towards the sounds of clashing metal and screaming children.

Within fifteen feet, he tripped and fell over a Fhirdiad noble battered beyond recognition. Dimitri had seen dead people, of course, but always after battles, from a distance. He was barely old enough to be considered as a squire, if princes were allowed to become knights. Only Sylvain had been in skirmishes, but he confessed that he had never been close to front lines where most soldiers fell. Dimitri prayed that his friends would have to wait much, much longer. He tried erasing the body from his mind, but the image lingered as he forced himself to roll away and stand again. Was he imagining things, or did the dead man try to speak?

Keep moving. He had to keep moving. On instinct, he tore his cloak from his shoulders and ripped away the royal insignia over his breast. The attack’s commanders might recognize him, but perhaps their fighters would see just another filthy, half-dead boy and pause long enough for him to disappear into the smoke.

Each step required precision to avoid people broken beneath him. He wished he could avert his gaze, but with one working eye he could only glance up before refocusing to find a clear path through the hellscape before him. Everywhere he looked, he saw someone he knew. Had known. Many were brutalized. The assailants had been wild beasts.

His boot struck something solid and large. Dimitri crouched down and rubbed a trembling hand across the soot-streaked flanks of his horse.

Areadbhar. A Blaiddyd child’s name for his first courser, gifted by Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius on Dimitri’s seventh birthday. Horse and boy grew up together, a pair of gangly colts too ugly for court, as Glenn teased. Long after he thought himself too old for daydreams, Dimitri imagined leading battle charges from the back of his grey stallion, who was always so keen to gallop he could nearly tear the reins from Dimitri’s fierce grip. Judging by the torn-up earth around his body, Areadbhar died struggling to rise and run.

Dimitri needed to move, but he couldn’t will it. A tide of catastrophic memories flooded back as the prince stroked his horse’s body.

He had been riding beside Glenn in his stepmother’s retinue on the third and final day of an uneventful journey. They were almost through the mountains, and the unusually pleasant spring morning left several nobles drowsing in their seats. As a result, the pace had slowed and spacing became staggered; the king and his front riders had nearly reached the exit of a long, narrow gulley when the last riders entered it. Displeased, Glenn trotted circles around the trailing parties, urging them to move faster.

Dimitri was stifling a yawn, trying to look more regal than he felt, when Areadbhar pricked his ears and snorted at something rustling in the forested hills above their train _._ The prince straightened and steadied his mount while Glenn’s warhorse also grew restless. Around them, the paladins’ steeds flattened their ears and broke into jigs. Dimitri thought he heard shouts between the trees. The horses knew. They always did.

Glenn executed a turn on the forehand and raised his palm, signaling the group to stop. Ever the taciturn soldier, he spoke to them all as subordinates including Dimitri.

“There’s an ambush underway. Meredith, fly to the king. Gather as many mounted knights as you can along the way. Princeling, you’re with me. The rest of you, get in position around the queen’s caravan. Whatever’s coming, I don’t want to see a single one of you break formation. Anyone who hesitates will answer to me afterwards.” His voice was calm, but his hands were clenched around the reins.

Together, Glenn and Dimitri rode towards the middle of the party, with the knight shouting orders. Confused nobles poked their heads from caravans in alarm.

“Anyone who can fight, get out and form defensive lines on both sides. If you can hold a bow, get on top of the caravans. If you don’t have arms, grab whatever you can that’s sharp or solid. Protect the women and children at all costs.” Glenn spurred his horse forward and swore. “Damn it, where is Gustave? He should have been here hours ago with a dozen bow knights as well. We’re too spread out and half the people here have never been in combat, or even seriously trained with their family weapons. If this is anything more than a few misguided thieves, we’ll be up against it.”

He cast a troubled glance at the prince, who held Areadbhar in check with a fierce light in his piercing blue eyes. “I’m not interested in your bravery today, cub. You aren’t battle-tested. If you run towards trouble and not away from it, I’ll strike you down myself.”

Chastened, Dimitri nodded.

“Where the fuck’s your lance?” Glenn glared at Dimitri’s empty hands. “Damn your father’s idealism. If we get out of this shit situation, I’ll tell him where to shove his faith in Fódlan.”

He drew a short sword from one of his scabbards and passed it handle-first to Dimitri. “Take it. If you need to swing it, that means I’m dead. Run until there’s nowhere left to go, then fight like the king lion himself.”

A low rumble came from the woods. Dimitri and Glenn looked in unison towards the trees as a wave of soldiers poured out of the forest. Pegasus and wyvern riders soared above them, armed to the teeth. Glenn sucked in his breath. Several teens acting as bowmen leaped from their perches atop wagons and carriages and took off running.

“HOLD you cowards,” Glenn cried.

The flying combatants released a volley of arrows, some pitch-soaked and aflame. They slammed into the procession, poleaxing bareheaded nobles caught unawares. From the rear of the party, people began to scream.

At the sound of their cries, Dimitri couldn’t stop himself. Without thinking, he wheeled Areadbhar around and spurred him into a gallop.

“Worthless princeling, what did I say? Get back here!”

The knight’s threats were no match for the sight of flames rising from his stepmother’s carriage. For the first time in his life, Dimitri struck his horse hard, again and again, desperate to reach Patricia before the surging warriors. Already, he saw the carriage sat open and empty. Through shimmering heat, he glimpsed the queen consort looking wildly about, surrounded by armed women and men. Were those friends helping her escape the fire, or enemy soldiers forcing her away from her family? She vanished into the flames. Dimitri roared and tore towards the place where she’d disappeared.

Areadbhar raced fast and hot beneath him, and then he dropped like a felled tree. Dimitri smashed into the dirt, bit his tongue, tasted blood. The sword skittered away from him. Arrows tore into the ground and the bodies of Faerghus soldiers. Something vicious struck his back. A loose horse went directly over him, ironshod hooves just missing his face. He screamed but couldn’t hear his own cry over the horrible din and the crackle of flames. Enemies swarmed in all directions. Dimitri went cold as a massive man thundered at him wielding a great axe.

Broadsword swinging, Glenn rode into the brigand at a full gallop and crushed him under the warhorse’s barbed front shoes. The knight was bleeding in half a dozen places as he reined to a stop, trampling the still-twitching body beneath him.

“Stupid fucking boy,” he said. He leaped from the saddle and grabbed Dimitri by the neck, shoving him towards the horse. “Take my horse and ride to Duscur. Now!”

From a distance, Dimitri watched himself clamber onto Glenn’s massive stallion. He felt like he was high above the pandemonium, observing Glenn cut through enemies like a falcon slicing towards prey.

“Damn you, focus!” Glenn’s voice snapped the teen back to earth. “Get out of here before you get us both killed!”

A javelin whistled through the air and speared Glenn from back to front. The Blaiddyd family protector made a terrible sound and dropped to one knee, his face riven in anguish. Still, he choked out, “ _Go, Dimitri._ ”

Dimitri spurred into a gallop through the searing heat. He wiped his arm across his eyes, half-blind from smoke and the tears streaming down his face. Glenn was dead. His stepmother was dead or worse. He would find the king and save him, or die trying. He didn’t know which one he wanted.

As he reached the front of the fight, bodies of royal guard soldiers and hastily conscripted nobles lay strewn everywhere, many clustered around a small ring of survivors locked in desperate battle against double their number. At the center, King Lambert stood his ground with bare fists flying, arrows riddling his back. For a single heartbeat, Dimitri was a child again, desperate to believe in an invincible father who could not fall.

King Lambert roared and smashed down a man coming from behind. His shouts rent the sky. “Avenge us! Those who killed us, tear them apart. Destroy them all!”

Fliers with axes closed in on the diplomat-king. Lambert’s eyes glittered with fear and rage.

Dimitri watched his father die.

He slid off Glenn’s horse and let it go. Before long, his father’s killers would spot the king’s successor standing unarmed in the muck. Dimitri closed his eyes and invited death to find him. Then, he heard his father’s raw, wet voice.

_Destroy. Them. All._

The prince opened his eyes and clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked. He pulled a lance from the nearest body and turned back in the direction of his stepmother. He met attackers with a blur of savage slashes and parries, gutting one, slicing the arm off another. He heard their cries and left them bleeding out in agony. People fell and fewer replaced them. A frantic Pegasus rider swept the lance from his hand; he grabbed the woman’s ankle in its stirrup and wrenched until bones splintered. She shrieked as the blood-soaked prince dragged her from the saddle and slammed a fist through her skull.

His stomach surged at the sickening crunch. He crushed his emotions, excised them from his heart, away from his battered knuckles and the terrible gore splashed up his torn sleeves. Over the din of the massacre, his dead father still screamed.

Wild-eyed, he turned to look for another fight just as a pair of cart horses tore past with their load in flames. Some piece of the wagon struck him in the head, and the world went dark.

Dimitri shook his head and the surging memories receded. He’d crouched over Areadbhar’s body long enough to be noticed by any remaining fliers. He moved away from the battle’s remnants, keeping his head low.

_Avenge us, Dimitri._

Fear coiled in his belly as dead friends and family demanded more blood. He shuddered and rubbed at his ears. What had the palace physicians said about the effects of blows to the head? Supposing he ever saw them again, he would need to prepare his questions in advance, wording them with great care to avoid a scandal. His father would not react well to learning that his son heard voices, even if one of them was…

…Right. His father was dead. He saw it himself. Dimitri flinched as the murder replayed uninvited, the riders with their weapons raised…

 _Stop._ He tried taking deep breaths to quiet his mind, the way Felix’s father, Rodrigue, once taught him, but it hurt too much. He knew that feeling from a childhood misadventure, when his three friends dared him to swing across the rafters of the palace’s great hall using the massive tapestries suspended from its ceiling. If memory served, he nearly made it before his grip tore the heavy cloth off its anchors and he plummeted onto one of the ancient oak dining tables. He cracked several ribs. The table never recovered. 

Focus, Dimitri. He clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms. Reverie could get him killed out here, and he was close enough to dead as it stood. The chaos made his head hurt; his thoughts scattered like starlings.

Unprompted, he flashed back to a memory from when he was very young: his stepmother sitting beside him, writing a list in her careful, precise script. Before she receded from daily life, Patricia helped Dimitri manage his anxieties about countless royal obligations by turning them a series of smaller, simpler steps. What were the first things he needed to do now?

  1. Find his stepmother
  2. Find Glenn



_A good start,_ his father said, _but you omitted the most important item:_

  1. Kill every last one of them



Seiros help him. Dimitri wondered how Faerghus would feel about a survivor-prince who heard voices of the dead. That should make for a memorable coronation ceremony at the very least. Something thick clotted his throat, clawing to escape. He was losing control. He tried not to laugh, knowing how painful it would be, but it was no use. He laughed until he howled. Until he he sagged against the charred shell of a royal carriage, holding his side, shoulders shaking, hot tears cutting lines through the blood on his cheeks.

Eventually, he grew quiet and surveyed his surroundings with detachment until he spotted a body in unfamiliar garb. Dimitri picked his way to the assailant and studied the woman’s corpse. Whoever these people were, they weren’t from Duscur.

A flash of color caught his eye. Glenn’s coat of arms. He had somehow retraced his path to where the nightmare began. Strike the second item from his list.

Standing grew difficult, so Dimitri let his knees buckle. He couldn’t bear the ruin of his mentor’s body, focusing instead on Glenn’s face, which was fixed in an expression of horror that Dimitri had never seen the man wear when alive.

“Glenn, I…I am so sorry this happened to you.” And to Felix. And Ingrid. And Rodrigue. Oh, saints, and to his friends accompanying their families on this supposedly safe endeavor.

“You died for me — no, because of me,” he said, studying the regret in the knight’s clouding eyes. “I cannot make amends. I will never be able to fix it. I destroyed _everything_.” His voice broke; Dimitri looked down and realized he was shivering uncontrollably. “How can you be dead — Father be dead — the only mother I know be dead, and I, still allowed to breathe?” He was shouting now. “I do not have the right.”

 _No,_ the chorus affirmed. _You do not._

The shivers worsened. Why was it so cold amid the crackling flames? Alarm bells sounded in his head. The initial attack, losing consciousness, discovering the massacre’s extent — he was in shock, likely bleeding internally, certainly in danger if he didn’t find help soon.

Hoofbeats galloped towards him. Doubtless his idiotic ranting had drawn the wrong attention.

Dimitri clutched at Glenn’s broadsword and tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t respond. “Get away from me,” he called in a rough voice. “Before the goddess, I swear, I will kill anyone who comes within reach.” He coughed and brought up more blood this time, still tasteless.

Winged riders flew low and fast above him. Dimitri could feel their shadows circling. In desperation, he made one last feint with Glenn’s sword before it fell from his failing hand. Suddenly, they scattered as hoofbeats pounded closer. He heard shouts and falling blows. It all seemed very far away.

After some time, the scuffle ceased. Someone in heavy armor ran to where he lay in a crimson haze. Dimitri was vaguely aware of the person dropping to their knees beside him, of pressure being applied to a place just above his collarbone. Devastated blue eyes hovered over him: Gustave had arrived at last.

The elder knight cradled the prince’s head with a gentle touch Dimitri envied. “Goddess be praised. Hold on, Your Highness. Help is on the way.”

Dimitri was delirious. “Wait for me.”

For the second time that day, the world went black. This time, he wasn’t alone in the void.

_We are waiting, orphan. You leave us no other choice. We wait until your work is finished. Do not tarry long._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't found definitive info on the distance between Fhirdiad and Duscur, so I concocted it based on what we do know: 1) There's a mountain range to cross; 2) Dimitri has to survive after being grievously wounded; and 3) he'll need to leave Fhirdiad again to ride down the genocide campaign soon. (I did assume he'd be returned to Fhirdiad for care given the extremely precarious situation.)
> 
> RE: calendar dates — I selected a period where travel wasn't completely infeasible in a northern climate but also kept it on the earlier side to give poor Sylvain a particularly shitty birthday.
> 
> Ages & DOBs based on game data and this [handy table](https://www.reddit.com/r/fireemblem/comments/cdctag/names_of_the_months_in_three_houses_and_birthdays/) from u/Christine13524 on reddit: 
> 
> Corrections appreciated, but lmk if it's frowned on to make edits after posting; I'm new at this.


	2. If It Kills Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KING LAMBERT'S GHOST: Okay, who left Sylvain in charge of the children?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last year, my dad died unexpectedly and for reasons his body never came home, either, and I am the designated adult in my disaster of a family, so I had to shove my grief to the sidelines (hey buddy, sorry about that).
> 
> Any loss is a mindfuck; grief is exceptionally weird, and no one reacts the way they think they're "supposed" to, and then I remember how utterly useless I was at naming my own damn feelings as a teen (or even now if we're being honest) and I think it's entirely understandable that sometimes you want to stab the people helping you.

### If It Kills Me

#### 1176, Garland Moon, fifth day

Alone above the city after midnight, Sylvain stopped smiling for the first time in weeks.

He’d smiled and left Gautier territory while Miklan snarled behind their mother’s back. He’d smiled and limped after his sabotaged horse while their dispassionate father watched. He’d smiled and felt his heart break as Glenn trapped Felix in a bear hug. It was his armor, his weapon and his artifice, and he was so damned tired of smiling.

He had his family to thank, of course. The Gautiers: Crest first, child second. They made sure he understood the only thing he was good for was being Sylvain the heir, Sylvain the opportunity. Well, Sylvain was a quick study, though he’d deny it. Let people see what they wanted. Guile was his best chance to circumvent their plans.

He was running out of time.

The air was redolent with the smell of annuals blooming in the capitol’s expansive greenhouses. It had been surprisingly easy to sweet talk his way past the guards and climb atop the city walls. Amazing what he could achieve with pretty words and winsome grins. Enjoying the view, Sylvain drew a flask from his cloak — the latest in a series of bad habits he was cultivating — and uncorked the stopper.

“Happy sixteenth, Gautier,” he toasted himself. “May this be the year you burn it all to ashes.”

Repressing an involuntary shudder, he forced himself to take a few swigs. Alcohol was not the forbidden fruit it was cracked up to be. Alas, most Faerghus nobles overlooked each other's vices, provided that one kept up appearances whether sober or smashed. To get himself excommunicated from their ranks, Sylvain needed to be a drunken lout, an unabashed womanizer and a relentless nuisance. He felt more than up to the task.

Goddess, his entire body ached. Felix had no mercy for a friend who was technically still recovering from his brother’s most-recent murder attempt. Since Glenn and Dimitri left for Duscur, their daily sparring sessions had grown hazardous.

To Sylvain’s relief, even Ingrid seemed perturbed by the number and severity of blows he’d endured at Felix’s hands. If she learned the motives behind his constant misbehavior, Sylvain suspected she’d damage her own reputation trying to help him — so he kept the smile in place for her. Unfortunately, that meant constantly disappointing the friend he considered a sister.

He did have a knack for helping people care less about him.

“Ah well,” Sylvain raised his drink to the stars. “Such is the lot of a Crested second son. Cheers to our honorable Faerghus traditions.”

He contemplated the patterns his breath made in the air. Drinking did take the edge off the north’s bitter winds, and Fhirdiad’s ale was a marked improvement on the beet-based dreck they brewed in his father’s territory. The climate there was too damn cold for any decent crops to survive. As a kid, he hadn’t believed vegetables could really grow above ground until he saw them himself in the capitol. Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone besides a certain set of friends who already knew too much.

Bright moonlight illuminated Fhirdiad’s winding streets like shimmering streams flowing from the palace. Studying the position of the North Star, he decided to linger and tucked his chin into his coat. The elder Gautier also kept late hours and had been trying to corner his son for days. The last thing Sylvain felt like doing on his birthday was dealing with another proposed marriage alliance. With a little more time, he could stir up enough trouble to dissuade the latest noble family salivating after his Crest.

From the dark landscape beyond the city, a ragged horn blew. The player sounded exhausted. Sylvain corked his flask and peered into the shadows with interest.

Minutes later, two cavaliers burst from the woods at a breakneck pace. The full moon revealed stumbling horses on the verge of breakdown, galloping unevenly as their riders urged them forward with shouts and blows. As they neared, one rider hoisted a flag with the Blaiddyd coat of arms above her head. An alarm sounded from the watchtower above the city gates.

“Well, that can’t be good.” He suddenly felt ill. Had he overdone his private celebration, or was that dread building in the pit of his stomach?

These days, Faerghus often had envoys spread across its lands, carrying news of King Lambert’s latest reforms to far-flung strongholds. Sylvain tried to convince himself that this was likely one of those parties returning to lick their wounds after bandits struck on the kingdom’s outskirts. It had been an uneventful, even boring night, so his mind was devising monsters to keep him on his toes. Nevertheless…

He turned and made his way along the ramparts, ducking beneath the low door and leaping down the stairs. A new guard was stationed at their base, eyes wide behind her visor.

“Hey,” she said, raising a mailed palm, “You can’t be up there.”

Sylvain executed a tight pirouette and spun around her outstretched arm.

“I know. That’s why I left,” he called over his shoulder.

She made as if to pursue him but turned back to the wall as the watchtower guards repeated their alarum. New voices cried for the gates to open. The riders were close enough that he could hear their shouts. One definitely said the word attack. To his horror, Sylvain heard the other say something about helping the injured prince.

He turned and ran towards the castle, taking the most direct route through the sleeping street markets. Scattered windows flickered with light as commotion swept into the city behind him. Sylvain pushed himself into a sprint, vaulting over sleeping dogs and ducking under shop awnings, his lungs burning by the time he flew into the main courtyard. A crowd of bleary-eyed nobles, his father among them, had gathered.

Margrave Gautier opened his mouth to speak as his youngest son blew past.

“Sorry, Father. Can’t talk now.”

He took the stairs to the second floor three at a time and tore down the hall towards the quarters of the only man he thought might know what to do. Nearly there, he slipped and skidded on the hall runner, crashing through Grand Duke Fraldarius’s open door.

Felix’s father was awake and dressing, his mouth tight. He startled at the sudden intrusion but quickly regained his composure, hushing the teen with a curt gesture while Sylvain caught his breath.

“Gautier. However inappropriate your entrance, you’ve saved me the trouble of finding you first. Hold your tongue—” Sylvain shut his mouth “—and listen carefully. I do not know what’s happened—”

“Royal cavaliers riding south. They said Dimitri’s hurt, maybe something about an attack? Sorry. I’ll stop.”

Rodrigue glared at the outburst, but his face paled. He took a deep breath and snatched up his cloak.

“If that proves true, it is even more important for you to do as I say _._ ”

He motioned for Sylvain to follow him down the hall as murmurs and stifled exclamations filled the air. The entire castle stirred like it had come alive.

Rodrigue was not a particularly tall man, yet he walked at such a brisk pace that Sylvain trotted to stay at his heels while he delivered a series of orders, as he had done on countless front lines.

“Wake Felix. If he is not in his room, find him immediately. Bring him to my quarters and wait there. Do not allow him to leave this floor.” He stopped abruptly and Sylvain slammed into his back. Rodrigue shot daggers at the apologetic teen and shook his head.

“Let me be clear, Gautier,” he said. “If I had a choice, I would call on someone else. I appreciate your difficult family situation, but you’ve long since exhausted my patience. You are feckless and vain, and I find your friendship with Felix deeply troubling. Were my son less stubborn, I’d have made him end the relationship years ago. But here we are.” Rodrigue sighed. “Impossibly, you are also the only person he trusts besides his brother. Someday, perhaps he will make better choices about the company he keeps.”

Sylvain’s head spun. “I’m sorry, what—”

“With that in mind,” Rodrigue continued without acknowledging him, “if what you say proves accurate, I fear I will be needed, perhaps for some time. Until we know, you must stay with my son, do you understand? Do not let him be alone.”

Hooves clattered on the granite stones outside. Rodrigue stepped to the window overlooking the courtyard. His shoulders sagged.

He turned away and measured Sylvain with hard eyes. “I will send word as soon as I can. I don’t care if it takes Seiros herself: keep Felix safe with you and away from me. Now, convince me you can manage this one request.”

Sylvain felt heat rise in his face. “I don’t know if I can. With company like mine, who knows what you can rely on?”

“Don’t be flippant with me, Gautier.” Vibrating with emotion, the Shield of Faerghus stepped forward and grabbed Sylvain by the collar.

Sylvain instinctively flinched, hating himself for it. His reaction made the duke pause and take in his clenched fists at Sylvain’s throat. Shame spread across Rodrigue’s face as he released his grip and lifted his hands in supplication.

“Sylvain. Please. I will not force you to do this for me. I am asking you to do it for him.”

“Okay, okay. However long you need, I’ll keep him safe.”

The duke smiled sadly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Despite it all, I believe you will. Take care of my boy, Gautier.” He descended down the curving stairs.

Trembling, Sylvain leaned back against the wall. What the fuck just happened?

He patted his pockets, but the flask had fallen out during his race back to the palace. His thoughts reeled from Dimitri lying hurt somewhere to Felix alone in his room to Rodrigue’s barbed words. It was too much: he needed to find Felix and get them out of the castle, go somewhere they could be away from…whatever this was.

Below, Rodrigue emitted a strangled cry.

Sylvain collected himself. Time to act like he did on the battlefield and charge towards the bad things. He straightened up to smooth his clothes, adjust his collar and artfully ruffle his hair back into place.

Whenever Felix stayed with his father in Fhirdiad, he insisted on taking a room set off by itself that faced away from the courtyard. Sylvain paused there, mentally preparing to tread a careful line between lying to his friend and admitting what he’d overheard.

The door flew open and Felix struck Sylvain’s chest like a thunderclap, knocking them both into the hallway.

“Woah, easy there, Fe. I've taken enough beatings from you in the yards lately,” Sylvain said, rubbing his elbow where he’d connected with the rough stone floor.

Felix was already back on his feet, bristling like an irate hedgehog.

“Why are you here?”

Sylvain hesitated. “Um, your father asked me to check on you. I’d forgotten how utterly intimidating he can be. That Shield of Faerghus thing is no joke.”

“Why did he ask you? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Clearly, I’m fine, so let’s go see what’s happening in the courtyard. I couldn’t sleep through the noise.”

“Yeah, about that—” but Felix had ducked under Sylvain’s arm to move swiftly down the hall. “Felix, wait!”

Another door opened and Ingrid’s arm shot out, snaring Felix by the sleeve. “What’s going on out there?”

“I’m trying to find out, if you’d let go of me,” Felix said, struggling to escape.

“Hey Ingrid, hang onto your catch a minute, will you?”

“Really, Sylvain? Come hold him yourself if you’re so keen.”

“I’m not a hooked fish.”

Great, now both of his friends were glaring at him. Sylvain frantically wondered how to take himself down several notches. Could he still do that?

Without releasing Felix, Ingrid stepped into the hall and closed the door softly behind her. She’d thrown on a huge knit sweater and what appeared to be a worn pair of her father’s trousers belted with — were those hair ribbons?

“It was wash day,” she said, noticing his stare. “Yes, that’s right, I have a single dress for this trip, and it’s currently drying on the line because, oddly, I did not expect to be out of bed at whatever time it is.”

Sylvain put up his hands in surrender. “I like the new look. Well, since you’re both up, why don’t we go back to the duke’s room?”

“Father already went down to the courtyard. Duke Fraldarius must be there, too, so let’s go find them. Do you know what’s going on?”

“Not really. Look, I’d love to investigate, but the duke made it quite clear that his quarters are the only place we’re allowed to be right now.”

Felix made a face. “Since when do you do what anyone’s father tells you?”

“I know. Clearly, I’m losing my edge. Can we argue about next steps once we’re there, please?”

Ingrid folded her arms and searched her friend’s face. “It’s the trip, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about? They aren’t due back for a week,” Felix said.

“Right before I woke up, I heard someone talking about Duscur. I thought I was dreaming, but maybe it was one of the nobles in the courtyard.”

“Impossible. My brother spent a month whining about how bored he’d be playing escort for a bunch of overfed dignitaries, remember?” Felix edged closer to the nearest window.

“But do you really think King Lambert made the right choice trusting Duscur? How many Duscurites have you met? We barely know anything about them. The only thing anyone can say for sure is they’re not like us, or else they’d already be our allies. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Sylvain cringed. “You sound like your father, Ingrid. That’s not a compliment.”

“I’m just saying what everyone thinks. This trip was a bad idea.”

“Good point. The Blaiddyds are known for making terrible decisions about who to trust. That’s how they’ve maintained power for centuries,” Sylvain said, grabbing Felix’s ear as he made a break for the window. He leaned away from Felix’s flailing arms. “Just to be clear, Fe, if you stab me with a sword, we’re not friends anymore.”

“I’m not interested in your perspective on diplomacy,” Ingrid snapped. “Riders tearing into the castle after midnight? Nobles voluntarily leaving warm beds before dawn? If there’s nothing to worry about, why isn’t my father back yet? What did Rodrigue say, Sylvain? What happened to Glenn and Dimitri?”

Sylvain forced a smile, struggling to contain Felix and handle Ingrid’s verbal barrage.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Like you said, Ingrid, we don’t know enough about Duscur to assume anything happened. There are a million reasons why Dimitri might be inj—” _Fuuuck._

Felix froze. “Dima’s hurt?”

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK._

Ingrid gasped, looking at Sylvain in disbelief as tears welled in her eyes. She growled and wiped them away, shoving through both friends with a force she rarely displayed.

“Ing, wait,” he said, but he’d accidentally let go of Felix, and they both shot past him.

“Go hang, Sylvain.”

Felix tugged Ingrid’s hand and said something Sylvain couldn’t hear. To his relief, they wheeled and ran pell-mell towards Rodrigue’s rooms. Good, he could corral them inside and bar the door if needed, although he’d rather have tea with all of his exes than confront an angry Fralatea alliance.

When he reached the duke’s quarters, it was silent. Sylvain scanned the empty room. Where the hell were they? Wait, had Rodrigue left the wardrobe ajar?

He strode across the floor and checked the contents, discovering a false back that had been shoved aside to access an opening in the thick stone wall. The hand of the king had a secret passage to Lambert’s chambers.

Sylvain stooped to get through, wishing he had time to appreciate the resplendent paintings adorning the walls on the other side.

He found his friends crouched behind the lip of an expansive balcony overlooking the courtyard, where Ingrid had craned her neck to hear the people below while Felix prepared to scramble up the nearest turret.

“Since I’ve already failed Rodrigue, would you stop trying to break your own neck if I say we can stay here for a bit?” He whispered in case their voices carried, gesturing at the waist-high short wall that enclosed the balcony. “From this angle, we should be able to spy over the top without anyone below noticing.”

Ingrid shushed him with her hand. “I want to hear what they’re saying.” But she followed his lead, gradually rising until she could see most of the courtyard.

“What’s going on?” Sylvain felt Felix’s warm breath on his neck. He moved over to make room.

The crowd had grown, although Sylvain didn’t see Rodrigue among them. He did see the two spent horses, now riderless, steam rising off their soaked flanks. Poor things. They’d be lucky to recover after such taxing rides.

With many people talking, it was difficult to make out distinct words, so Sylvain pointed to concentrate on a small group clustered below the balcony. Ingrid and Felix followed his lead.

“They said those Duscur bastards burned all the transports.”

“What about the prince?”

“Still breathing when they rode out, anyway.”

“Is it true he’s the only survivor?"

“That’s what I heard, too.”

“Has to be, did you see Rodrigue’s face?”

Sylvain’s heart stopped.

Speechless, he put his arms around his friends, gathering them tight against his chest. Ingrid shuddered, hands clamped over her mouth. Felix felt still as stone.

They held each other until Sylvain couldn’t tell whether he was shaking from shock or the frigid air.

“C’mon, we’ll freeze out here. We need to go back.”

In Rodrigue’s quarters, Felix went straight to his father’s bed and curled up on the duvet. Ingrid lowered herself onto a bench and put her hands over her face.

Sylvain paced around the room a few times, unable to settle. He rebuilt the fire in the stone hearth to warm the damp air, tidied the papers scattered across Rodrigue’s desk, and ran out of things to do. Finally, he sank to the floor and slumped against the featherbed, reaching up to hold Felix’s hand.

“Maybe they’re wrong.”

“For once in your life, will you keep your mouth shut?”

Sylvain fell silent again.

Time passed.

Dawn broke like there was nothing remarkable about the day. Sylvain stood to ease his aching back and check on the others. Ingrid had tucked her knees under her oversized sweater and wrapped her arms around them, absently rotating Glenn’s ring on her finger. Felix lay on his side looking dazed, gripping his sword hilt like a vise.

Sylvain felt worse than he did after a fight with Miklan. Thinking exhausted him. What should he do, try getting them to eat something? He glanced at his friends.

“I’ll be right back.”

Felix didn’t respond. Ingrid gave a small nod without lifting her gaze from her ring.

Outside, the bustling castle had fallen into eerie silence. People passed with their eyes low. Quiet groups still lingered in the courtyard waiting for their prince to arrive. Someone had taken the horses back to the stables.

Even though Rodrigue’s words had been on his mind the entire night, Sylvain trudged all the way to the kitchens before realizing he should have brought Felix with him.

He closed his eyes and cursed his incompetence. Playing the fool had become a bit too automatic lately. Rodrigue was right, he was irresponsible and unreliable. Someone should be comforting him, not the other way around — but there was no one else. It was staggering to acknowledge, but he was furthest-removed from the tragedy despite the real possibility that one of his closest friends was dead or dying.

In the palace kitchens, life continued. At all hours, staff labored over stations kneading dough, chopping vegetables and filleting fish and meat. Demonic beasts could set up shop in the market, and meals would still be served on time. The morning’s steady hum of activity overwhelmed him.

A balding, brusque cook that he often pestered found Sylvain standing lost with an empty breadbasket in hand, trying to remember why he’d come.

“Gautier,” he said, “This isn’t a good morning to be in the way. Give me that and get out before someone runs you over during the breakfast prep.”

When Sylvain didn’t respond, the cook looked in his face and made a sympathetic cluck.

“Ah, you poor thing. Come, sit here and sip this tea while I fetch a fresh pot. How many cups do you need?”

Sylvain looked at the man blankly.

“No matter, I’ll send half a dozen to be safe. Mind you don’t crack any this time, or I’ll make you do the washing-up for a week. Now, let’s put together something to eat as well.”

Normally a man of few words, he maintained a steady patter as he assembled a generous plate.

“You might not be hungry today, but make sure to pick at this whenever you feel up to it. The same for your friends. Don’t force them, but keep offering. Here. Can you manage, or shall I send help with you?”

Sylvain rubbed his face. “No, Hector. I can carry it. Thank you.”

He took in the tea set on its sturdy tray, surrounded by a careful arrangement of light but nourishing snacks.

“You didn’t have to do this. Thank you.”

Hector gave Sylvain’s elbow a firm but friendly squeeze before returning to his work.

The tea still steamed when he shouldered the tray back into the room. Ingrid raised her head and gave an appreciative sniff. Sylvain maneuvered the tray onto the ottoman next to her and perched on the other side of the bench. He poured the tea and pressed a warm cup into her hands while she considered the options and selected a delicate biscuit, nibbling it appreciatively.

“I didn’t think I could eat, but this is lovely. Thank you, Syl."

“Don’t thank me. I got lost in front of the pastry station. Hector said to keep ourselves fed if we can.”

“I’ll try.”

Sylvain left his cup on the tray and took one to Felix, who turned his face into the pillow.

“Come on, Fe. We’ve been up all night.”

“Go away.”

“Drink a sip of this first?”

“Don’t make me stab you.”

“Tell you what, I’ll stop bothering you if you promise to eat something before the tea gets cold.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Felix dragged himself up and slouched against the bedpost. “Just bring me whatever Ingrid doesn’t want.”

“I said you have to eat something.”

“I heard that,” Ingrid said.

They both looked as haggard as Sylvain felt, but at least he could still get a rise out of them.

Sylvain brought Felix a twist of cured venison and settled next to him on the bed. Silence cast a pall over the room.

Ingrid lifted her head. “I need to see if my dress is dry.”

“What?” Sylvain rubbed his temple, feeling wrung out again.

“When I knew this trip was actually going to happen, I wanted to wear something Glenn liked. He thinks — thought — green shades look nice with my eyes. By now it might be dry, so I’ll have time to press it before they bring him home. I want to look the way I hope he remembered me when he…” she trailed off and looked at him helplessly. “Listen to me, I’m embarrassing myself. I should go.”

Sylvain glanced at Felix, who was staring at the untouched tea in his hands. “We’ll come with you.”

“No, Syl. I need to check on Mother. She’s been alone all night, and since Father hasn’t come searching for me yet, that means he hasn’t looked in on her, either. I’ll be okay, I promise.” She made a valiant effort to smile.

Sylvain’s heart twisted, but he nodded. “Find you later?”

“Maybe after Dimitri comes home.”

She squeezed Felix’s shoulder, then hugged Sylvain and put her mouth by his ear.

“What about you?”

A lump welled in his throat. He nodded and held her a moment longer, unable to speak. She kissed him on the head and tousled his hair, then left, closing the door gently behind her. Sylvain knew she’d wait to reach the seclusion of her room before she wept.

“There goes your only good company, Felix.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? In case it isn’t obvious, I don’t know what I’m doing here, Fe, so you either need to be more specific or quit jumping down my throat. You’re such an ass lately—sorry. I didn’t mean that, clearly I’m the one being an ass.”

“As established.”

“Thanks for the affirmation. Goddess, I’m so tired.” Sylvain fell back along the short side of the mattress, letting his feet dangle off the side.

“I meant don’t constantly disparage yourself around me.”

“Seriously? I’m repeating what I hear you say half the time.”

“But I don’t...never mind.”

He was too tired to draw out Felix this time. They were quiet for a while.

“Glenn never said a bad thing about himself,” Felix said.

“Were there bad things to say?”

“Don’t make him a saint. You knew him, too. He was arrogant and egoistic, and half the time we couldn’t stand each other. But the other half…”

Glenn leading their raucous pack in wild romps around the Fraldarius castle, jogging backwards and hurling good-natured insults. Glenn knowing when he’d gone too far teasing his baby brother, making it up with a ride on his shoulders to the secret fort he built for them.

Glenn finding Sylvain, more than once, and in his tactless Fraldarius manner offering to put an end to Miklan’s torment back home. The big brother to four feral children who envied and adored him in equal measure. Gone.

“I don’t want this to be real, Syl.”

Sylvain reached for Felix’s hand again. “Neither do I.”

If he could stay awake a little longer, maybe Rodrigue would finally send someone up to check on them. Or someone would arrive with Dimitri, injured but in good spirits. He’d be startled by their sorry states and reassure them that everyone else was fine, he had tripped over his own feet and knocked himself silly, or done something else Sylvain could embarrass him about until the prince’s blush covered his entire face, as it always did if Syl teased long enough…Dima, please. Stay alive.

He’d just close his eyes for a moment.

When he woke, late-morning light made him squint. He started to sit up but sank back before his head left the mattress.

Felix curled into Sylvain’s side like a sleeping cat, with one arm flung across his friend’s body. He’d tucked his head against Sylvain’s chest so Syl could just make out the sharp contour of his cheek sloping away below long black eyelashes. Sylvain had wrapped his own arm under Felix, and it was completely numb. Stray black hair tickled his face. He let it be.

He knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep, but arguably he’d finally achieved Rodrigue’s request _._ There was no reason to disturb their fleeting peace. Sylvain closed his eyes and felt their chests rise and fall into each other, letting his thoughts drift towards the ceiling.

Sometimes a smile was just a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "This Year" (The Mountain Goats)
> 
> yep, I changed the story title because everything is better with Frightened Rabbit


	3. Gone, But We Bear His Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hard times, look for the helpers. 
> 
> NARRATOR: Mr. Rogers neglected to tell the children that some helpers will be very, very bad at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy goddess 100+ hits what even . Thank you for the reads, kudos and comments, and for caring about these sweet fucked-up children in whom I am not emotionally over-invested at all.
> 
> Trigger warning for mental health; see end notes for details.

### Gone, But We Bear His Mark

#### 1176, Garland Moon, seventh day

Dimitri was back on the battlefield.

This time, he stood atop a pile of corpses with his forearms soaked in blood, fingers dripping scarlet spatters that formed a crimson moat below his grisly stronghold.

He’d killed them all.

He pleaded with himself to wake up. This wasn’t real, it wasn’t him, he couldn’t do the things that had happened to these people.

A pegasus drifted on mangled wings, the rider’s ruined face leering beneath her smashed helm.

_But this is your handiwork, beast._

He stumbled as the pile shifted. Bodies angled filmy eyes towards him; at his feet, he saw his father’s severed head. King Lambert opened his mouth and laughed.

_Wake up, son. It makes no difference to the dead._

“Damn all the saints, the bishop needs more time to work. Hold him down.”

“Dimitri, can you hear me? It’s all right, Your Highness, you’re safe.”

He struggled towards Rodrigue’s voice, clawing through the nightmare until he felt physical pain wrenching him apart, a blessed relief after unending death.

Even with his eyes barely open, the light was blinding. Too frightened to close them lest he be dragged back into his dream, Dimitri focused on a dark spot hovering over him.

“Duke Fraldarius?” His voice was a whisper, throat raw from dehydration.

“Dimitri? Thank the goddess. Try to keep still. We’re almost finished.”

Rodrigue, he realized, was pinning his shoulders to the mattress. A steady flow of white magic emanated from across the room, but it didn’t feel right.

“Why isn’t it working?” Rodrigue adjusted his grip, looking uncomfortable.

The bishop sounded strained. “I do not know. We’ve knit the wounds back together, but there is still damage. Something is blocking me. I’ll need to break through.”

The pain in his head became excruciating. Dimitri bit his lip as a whimper escaped.

“Stop,” a doctor said. “We cannot risk pushing him more. Even Blaiddyds have limits.”

The recover spell ebbed and Dimitri’s headache receded enough to unclench his hands, which had cracked the sides of the bed frame.

Rodrigue collapsed in a chair rubbing his sore fingers. As Dimitri’s vision improved, he saw new lines and shadows on the duke’s weary face.

“Even half-dead, lion cub, you’re stronger than five men.” Like both of his sons, Rodrigue did not mince words with the Blaiddyds, a rare trait that Dimitri treasured.

“Could I have some water, please?”

Rodrigue helped raise his head enough to sip from a small cup. Each swallow made him wince. The water was tasteless, but it always had been, hadn’t it? He sank back against the pillows. If he didn’t fear his dreams, it would be wonderful to sleep again.

“How did I get here?”

“Gustave brought you home two days ago.”

“Did he? I cannot remember anything after the fight. I would like to thank him.”

“You are not the only one. I had also hoped he would provide some information about the people who attacked His Majesty. Unfortunately, Gustave disappeared as soon as he carried you from his horse to this infirmary bed. With the kingdom in upheaval, I cannot spare cavaliers to find him.”

“My father is dead.”

“Yes.”

“My stepmother, too?”

"Gustave ordered most of his knights to stay behind and continue looking for survivors. The final search party is due back tonight, but thus far the Queen Consort remains missing.”

“What about my friends? Their families?” He didn’t know why he asked when he knew the answer.

Rodrigue looked diminished.

“They have found no one left alive.”

Dimitri sat astride Glenn’s warhorse watching the javelin cut him down.

_Stupid fucking boy. Look what you’ve done._

“Duke Fraldarius, I…” He searched for words but none came.

“You are not to blame, Dimitri.”

Dimitri pondered what King Lambert would want him to say, though it was hard to concentrate while his head throbbed like an open wound. The duke was wrong, but Dimitri knew he should not disagree. A king’s duty was to be strong for people no matter how he felt inside, and that seemed even more important for the brokenhearted man who loved his father most, whose son was dead because Dimitri couldn’t follow simple orders.

“Glenn is the reason I live. He was my Shield, Rodrigue — he saved me. I owe you and Felix a debt that I will spend the rest of my life repaying.”

Rodrigue’s eyes were wet. “No, my lord. My son upheld the pledge our family made generations ago, to be the right hand of House Blaiddyd no matter the cost. It was his choice and his honor to protect you. He died like a true knight.”

No, Dimitri thought. He only died.

Like they all did. Like I should have.

Fatigue tugged him down again. He needed Felix and Ingrid and Sylvain, but he was too tired to say the words and too afraid to face them. He felt Rodrigue’s hand on his cheek, reminding him of the king. Whenever Dimitri was sick as a boy, Lambert left the throne room to Rodrigue, abandoning petition hearings and policy debates to sit with his son and stroke his hair, and even sing lullabies horribly off-key, until his fever broke.

He would never feel his father’s touch again.

“Rest now. You put the healers through their paces this evening. I must speak with your uncle, but I will return soon.”

Rufus was in Fhirdiad already? Of course.

“Thank you, Rodrigue.”

“Dear boy. I lost my son, but you lost your family. If the goddess permitted, I would sacrifice my life to make you whole again.”

Dimitri knew he should be gracious, but misery consumed him.

“I’m not worth anyone’s sacrifice.”

“Oh, Dimitri. You are worth everything to us.”

After he was alone, Dimitri willed himself to stay awake, praying to the goddess and anyone else who might listen.

Please. Please don’t let the dreams find me again. Make me stop hurting people. Let me float away in the dark and wake up less afraid.

His prayers went unanswered.

Sylvain was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well since his brief nap with Felix. Was that two or three days ago?

He limited his movements to trudging between his pointless bed, the training yards, and Ingrid’s door, though she hadn’t responded to any of his knocks or pleas. Soon, he’d need to take desperate measures, maybe flirt with her mother or challenge Count Galatea to a duel. If that didn’t bring his favorite knight-in-training roaring out like a wyvern, he didn’t know what could.

Speaking of fathers...Sylvain gave the balled-up paper in his hand another crumple for good measure. Even for the Margrave, it was a new low to abandon his grieving son so the elder Gautier could return home on schedule.

The day their world shattered, Sylvain slipped away when Rodrigue finally came upstairs; Felix didn’t need to know what had happened between them. He went to his room for some fruitless rest and a change of clothes, and found the letter sitting neatly on his desk with a fresh wax seal.

Ever the calculating politician, the Margrave’s fussy script made no reference to Dimitri other than a few careful words about “the unfortunate events in Duscur.” As expected, it did go on inordinately about a potential marriage alliance.

It was time for another circuit, so he hauled himself off the hall floor and traipsed to the Galateas, where he forewent knocking and dropped his head against the door with a solid clunk.

“Ingrid, come on, open up. You should see my hair. This is the best chance you’ll ever have to tell me how awful I look and actually be right.”

Silence.

“I have a truly odious letter from my father, too. It uses all his favorite phrases: ‘your Crestborn obligations,’ ‘the honor of our most noble lineage,’ and he closes with a request that I commend him to Rodrigue, if you can believe it. It’s a good read, but I like the way you do his voice better.”

He waited and chewed his lower lip, an anxious childhood habit that had reemerged.

“Fine, I’ll just have to pretend I’m you and read it to Felix instead. More importantly, I heard Dimitri’s improved. The royal guards keep kicking me out of the infirmary, but there’s an evening shift change soon that should give us a window. When he wakes up, he’ll want to see you. Ingrid, please...I want to see you. Will you let me in for a minute?”

Sylvain pressed his ear against the door listening for any signs of life, lingering long enough that it attracted the attention of some nobles down the hall who stopped to stare. He smiled extra-wide and made a rude gesture that sent them sputtering away.

Finally, defeated, he returned to the training grounds where Felix had been sparring — and sleeping, by the look of him — for the past day and a half.

“I give up,” Sylvain announced as he entered the otherwise-empty arena.

Felix had switched to the silver sword from Glenn and made quick work of a training dummy, judging by the numerous chunks of splintered wood scattered across the ground. It wasn’t like him to mar a good blade.

“She needs time, Syl.” Felix didn’t turn around, punctuating his words with strikes.

“I’m worried about her.”

“You should be. She lost more than Glenn, she lost her family’s future.”

Felix had been doing this, swinging between despondent silence and stoic insight. It rattled Sylvain a little if he was honest with himself, which he was not.

“Any word from Rodrigue?”

Despite himself, Sylvain felt sympathy for the duke, who had to mourn his own child, look after the kingdom, and try to comfort Felix. Under so much pressure, even the Shield was bound to make mistakes — which most people would forgive, but not a son wielding his grief like a battleaxe.

Felix didn’t answer, so Sylvain sat to wait on the low stone seats outlining the yard. For some reason, he could handle silence between them when it made him itch with anyone else.

Felix slashed an imaginary throat, lowered his sword and came to sit beside his friend, keeping his eyes low.

“He stopped by again while you were away. We had a fight.” Felix hunched over the blade and a tear splashed its scuffed metal.

“Hey, hey. Let’s move this before you lose an eye,” Sylvain said, prising the weapon carefully away and setting it at their feet.

Felix snuffled. “Put it in the scabbard.”

Sylvain rolled his eyes but did as he was told. Then he drew Felix into his arms and rested his chin on the shorter boy’s head.

“I hate it when you do that,” Felix said, but he stayed put.

“What happened, Fe?”

“He was prattling on about how proud I should be that Glenn died serving the king. Like I’m supposed to be happy my brother’s gone because at least he lost his life for the right reason, as if that means a fucking thing.”

Sylvain made a note to curtail his language around his more impressionable friends.

“He won’t leave me alone about it. I’m not grieving right, I’m too angry, _I’m not Glenn_. That’s what he means. He thinks I don’t know, but I’m not stupid.” Felix wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked disgusted by it. “So I told him, I knew he wished it was me who’d died.”

“Ouch. That’s brutal, Felix.”

“It’s true! You think he’s glad I’m the one left to carry on our name? The son no one likes, when he had an heir who could charm nobles as easily as he demolished enemy battalions? I’d rather pull my own teeth than suffer the fools my brother could appease with a smile. I can never be Glenn, Syl, and we all know it. Besides, the old man agreed.” Felix’s voice broke on the final words.

Murderous impulses tore through Sylvain’s head. “He said he wished you were dead?”

“He didn’t say I was wrong. Didn’t even tell me he loved me as much as Glenn. He said we needed to ‘respect the goddess’s will.’ So I said, ‘Fuck the goddess’.”

Sylvain arched an eyebrow. “Heretical words, friend. I concur.”

“I hate him.” Felix sobbed, burrowing his face into Sylvain’s chest. “I want my brother back.”

“Oh, Fe. I know you do. We all do.”

Locked in their embrace, Felix let go and wept.

Sylvain’s heart ached, and not only because of his friend’s tears. The older they grew, the less anyone saw of this Felix, the boy who felt things more intensely than Dimitri, cried when Sylvain sported a fresh black eye, ran to Ingrid for protection from the others. The world seemed intent on stamping out Felix’s vulnerability, as it had done to most good things in Sylvain’s life.

Fuck the goddess, indeed.

He held on tight until Felix took a shuddering breath and quieted.

“I should have started with better news,” he said, lifting his red-rimmed eyes away from Sylvain’s damp vest. “Dima’s awake.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m lying to raise your hopes because I enjoy watching your face fall.”

Sylvain jumped up, taking Felix with him, and did a tired jig around the ring.

“What are you doing? Put me down, idiot.”

“Absolutely not. We deserve a celebration.” Sylvain adjusted his grip to hold Felix under the arms so he couldn’t squirm away.

“Where’s my sword?”

“Nope, not letting you near it now.”

Sylvain hummed a popular tavern number and spun them across the floor, swooping his sputtering partner into a dip just as Felix successfully kicked the back of his knee. They collapsed hard in the dirt, Sylvain hysterical with giddy exhaustion, Felix redder than an Adrestrian banner.

Sylvain propped himself on his forearm and grinned at Felix, who had a strange look in his honey-gold eyes that vanished before Sylvain could read it.

“Want to come with me, spring him from the infirmary?”

Felix let his hand fall from Sylvain’s neck, leaving behind a pleasantly warm imprint. He frowned and turned his head away, working through his thoughts.

Sylvain rescued him. “How about I stop by your room — notice, I did not say training yard — early tomorrow to see how you feel? We can go together if you want. You might want to take a bath first.”

He licked his thumb and rubbed at a spot of dirt above Felix’s dark eyebrow.

“Stop it.”

“It’s for your own good. What have you been doing, climbing the palace walls? You look a mess. If anyone else comes to train today, they’ll think you’re a bandit.”

Felix surrendered and let Sylvain tidy his face a bit. He almost looked like he enjoyed the attention.

“There. It’s not much of an improvement, but you’re a little less filthy.”

There was that curious expression again. The air suddenly felt charged, like a summer storm was coming. Sylvain scrambled back to his feet and pulled Felix up alongside him, feeling inexplicably awkward.

“I should get back to sparring,” Felix said.

“And I have a date with a prince.” Sylvain reddened at his word choice and shook his head. “And a date with my mattress, alone, shortly thereafter. Which is evidently overdue.”

Felix drew his sword and turned back to the beleaguered dummy.

“Sometimes I don’t understand why you keep talking.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Stop proving my point.”

With that, Sylvain gave in and fled.

“Hello, Syl.”

“Hey, Dima.”

They’d been together only a week ago, yet each feared they were unrecognizable to the other.

Sylvain knew the attack had been catastrophic, but Dimitri’s face made it real. Since childhood, his eyes had been the weak point in most of their schemes. Smart people learned to interrogate the crown prince first, because even under graphic threats of punishment from Felix and Ingrid, Dimitri’s face betrayed every one of their bad ideas; his eyes were too expressive to hide anything. Now, all the light had gone out of them.

Dimitri took in Sylvain’s bone-weary stance, the dark circles under his hazel eyes and the way his hand trembled on the door. He hadn’t looked this frightened since they were little and Miklan left him on a mountain in that awful blizzard. Hadn’t anyone in the castle thought to check on him recently?

They hesitated until Dimitri started to cough, wracked with pain as he shook and clutched his contused ribs. To the doctors’ dismay, he’d propped himself up in bed and refused to lie back down. Sylvain quickly crossed the floor and held his friend’s shoulder until the spasm subsided.

“I’m becoming quite tired of that,” Dimitri wheezed. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you, friend.”

“You’re glad to see me? Fuck, Dimitri...”

Beneath the bandages, Dimitri blushed.

“I’m relieved to see I can still embarrass you with the right words. Goddess, it’s good to see you alive and breathing.”

“You call that breathing?”

“Your sense of humor is still abysmal, so that must be a good sign.”

“Sorry. I’ve received a lot of attention today. It’s a little uncomfortable.”

“See? This is what happens when you get hurt. Maybe try not to do that again?”

“I will make a note of it.” Dimitri smiled tentatively.

Sylvain observed a poorly concealed lance tucked between his mattress and the rather mangled bed frame.

“How are you feeling?”

Dimitri shifted in discomfort. “Less than pleasant, but Rodrigue says I am much better than yesterday. Everyone is doing their best to heal me.”

“What do you mean 'doing their best'? If the casters are using their battlefield spells, those usually work right away."

“From what I overheard, the process becomes more complicated when wounds aren’t fresh...and it appears that I may be making things rather difficult, as well.” He didn’t elaborate. “I can tell from their faces that I should feel fortunate. Most people would be dead.”

“The Blaiddyd Crest did its job, then.”

“So it seems. What about you, Syl? You must be exhausted if you’ve been taking care of Felix this whole time, and Glenn was more brother to you than Miklan’s ever been.”

Dimitri and his big, stupid heart. Indifference was the only thing keeping Sylvain going; when no one asked, he could almost believe he was fine.

“For fuck’s sake, stop trying to take care of me, Your Highness.”

Those intense blue eyes looked haunted, but the prince was very much present. He raised an eyebrow at Sylvain’s retort, then flinched.

“I probably need to find new ways to express myself for awhile.”

“See, that was funny.”

“You are trying to change the subject.”

“Fine, fine. For you alone, I yield. I’m a walking disaster, but seeing you makes me feel the best I have in days. That said, after this visit, I may stay in bed for a month if I can figure out how to fall asleep again.”

“Ah. Despite being unconscious until rather recently, I am becoming acquainted with insomnia myself.”

“Sorry to hear it. Based on my recent experience, it’s dreadful”

Dimitri looked away. “Sleeping today has been difficult, but the doctors say it will improve with time. I must learn to be patient.”

“Do you want me to draw the curtains? You’re wincing.”

“Thank you, but it’s not the light. I’ve had a terrible headache since...well, since the ambush.”

“The priests haven’t fixed it? Have you said anything?”

Dimitri wouldn’t look at him.

“Dimitri, you have to tell them. Magic isn’t perfect, you know that. If you aren’t bleeding out in front of them, even good healers can miss things. Given the strain everyone’s under, I’m sure they’d appreciate knowing what’s going on in your head.”

Dimitri made a strange face and didn’t respond. He looked more than uncomfortable; he looked tortured. The entire time they talked, he kept touching the lance like he needed to assure himself it was still there. Sylvain decided to take matters into his own hands.

“When’s the last time anyone changed your bandages?”

Dimitri grimaced. “Yesterday, I think? There’s not much the healers can do about scarring, so they’re focused on restoring full function. I think the doctors decided to give me a break after the last casting session, but I’m sure they’ll rewrap everything tomorrow.”

Sylvain shook his head. “You already bled through half of them. Ugh, I can’t help it, it’s offending my noble sensibilities. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“No, Syl, please. I can’t ask you to —”

“Save your breath, I’m not listening.” Sylvain rummaged through supplies in the cabinet. “Lucky for you, I’m surprisingly decent at treating injuries. As you may recall, I had plenty of experience when we were growing up.”

“You had to dress your own wounds when you were little?”

Sylvain shrugged. “If I went crying to my father, he’d just hurt Miklan more, which didn’t exactly make the next beating easier. I figured out pretty fast that fixing myself up was better for everyone. By the time I was ten, I could dress a burn, splint a finger and stitch almost anything as long as I had a mirror. Okay, let’s see that right hand first. Promise me you’ll direct your Crest energy away from my face if this stings.”

He carried a pile of jars and supplies to the bedside aid station before rinsing his hands in a basin of clean water that sat covered on the counter. Then he set to work gently removing the soiled dressings, pausing here and there to snip at stuck pieces with a small pair of scissors.

“These almost look like chemical burns. Dark magic?”

“Could have been. I’m not sure. There was a lot of fire.”

“You broke every knuckle on this one. Nasty gouges here, too, all the way up past your wrist. Do I want to know what you did with this fist?”

“No, I don’t think you do,” the prince said quietly.

Sylvain had joked to hide his own discomfort, but Dimitri’s tone made him stop. He dabbed the infirmary’s mix of honey and white-magicked herbs over the raw, inflamed tissue and started carefully rebandaging each finger.

“I don’t think I’ll be asking anyone to dance this year.”

“Keep still, I need to wrap your palm. And I wouldn’t despair yet. The spells are knitting everything back together, so just think about the impressive scars you’ll be able to show off in a few months. Girls love that stuff.”

Dimitri grimaced as they started on his left hand, uncovering more deep burns running halfway up his forearm.

“Maybe they do, but I don’t think I want to recall what happened every time I see my own hands. Besides, I’d rather not touch anything directly for awhile, so I'll find another option."

“If only white magic worked as well on pain as it does on actual injuries. How does it feel?”

“I imagine it’s not dissimilar to being flayed alive.”

“Oh…” He finished with Dimitri’s left hand. “Almost finished. Lean forward and let me rewrap the big ones. You are one giant bruise back here, my friend.”

“That’s certainly how it feels.”

“What did this?” Sylvain traced a feather-light touch along a ragged scar the size of his fist between Dimitri’s left shoulder and spine.

“An axe or a mace, I think? I remember feeling that one, but whoever swung it hit me while I was already on the ground.”

“I’d like a few minutes alone with that coward. Who strikes a kid from behind? Still, it's probably better you didn't see this one coming.”

“Do you mind if we talk about something else?”

“Sorry. It may surprise you, but I don’t have the best sense of when to shut my mouth. Let me think...I’d regale you with my latest conquests, but for some reason I haven’t gone out the past few nights. Ooh, I know, let’s talk about why you’re sharing your bed with a steel lance.”

It was almost unfair teasing someone who was so reliably flustered.

“I would not phrase it that way. It’s strange, I woke up a few hours ago and found it here, but I have no memory of who left it. Having one close does bring me comfort, I’ll confess, although I think it will give Rodrigue fits.”

“Mm-hmm.” Sylvain made a show of acting like he needed to stand and stretch his back before finishing, giving him an excuse to wander towards the window. “Well, even if I’d rather find a cute girl in my bed, you’ve been inseparable from lances since we were little, almost as bad as Felix with his swords. Far be it from me to judge.”

The latch was open. He casually leaned against the stone sill and scanned the ledge outside, finding exactly what he suspected.

“It must have come from someone who knows you well. If having something sharp and pointy nearby makes you feel better, so what?” he said, turning back to Dimitri. “Okay, a couple wraps around your ribs and we’ll be done. Anyway, the doctors can’t exactly tell their future king what’s allowed in the ward.”

“I suppose. It is less unsettling than some other things that have happened lately.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Dimitri looked as if he was struggling with something he wanted to say.

“What about Felix and Ingrid? I can’t stop thinking about how they must feel.”

“Okay, now you’re the one changing the subject, but I’ll allow it. It’s been a rough few days for everyone. I know they want to see you, but they’re both struggling with, you know...”

“Syl, I don’t know what I’m going to say to either of them. Especially when I am to blame for Glenn’s death —”

“First of all, there is no way that any of what happened is your fault. Second, whatever you do say, leave out that last part. Ingrid will be offended on Glenn’s behalf and Felix...let Felix bring up Glenn if he wants to.”

“I understand. Still, my father would have known what to do. He broke devastating news to close friends so many times. I wish I had thought to ask how he prepared.”

“Dimitri, they know what you lost, too. They don’t expect anything from you — um, Ingrid doesn’t, anyway.”

That at least made Dimitri smile, even if his eyes were far away.

“It’s late, and I still need to sneak past your guards. I’m tired of being shuffled out on the wrong end of their pikes. I’ll come back tomorrow?”

“I would like that.” Dimitri took his hand, suppressing a wince. “I missed you.”

“That’s a dire sentiment, Dima. Let’s not put you in this position again.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, okay?”

“I will try. Goodnight, Syl.”

Voices came for Dimitri as soon as he was alone. He put a pillow over his head to muffle the noise and drifted into a fitful sleep with the lance before him like an amulet, wondering how to hold himself together when a growing part of him wanted to let go.

He hated heights, but some long-dead fool put the royal infirmary above the ground floor, so that was that.

By now, Felix knew every cleft in the wall well enough that, even on this starless night, he was over the window ledge before the exterior guards completed their rounds. They really were useless. He flattened below the panes, listening for anyone who might be working late. Once he was certain they were alone, he edged up into a crouch and scrutinized the dark interior.

The prince was asleep again. Good. He wasn’t ready to look him in the eye.

He nimbly angled himself to swing the window open and slip inside, balancing on the sill while he closed it behind him. As his eyes adjusted, he controlled his breathing until his heart slowed back to normal.

He’d nearly been caught the last time. It had been challenging enough to clamber up the wall with that ridiculous lance on his back — but it had to be a lance, obviously. Never mind where he obtained it: up he went, teetering precariously a few times, and had it in Dimitri’s hand when the prince stirred.

That had been an interesting few minutes. If Sylvain had been along, Felix would have thrown himself straight out the window. _You looked like the cat caught dragging a chicken off the counter! How did you avoid cracking your skull when you dropped under the bed like that?_ Insufferable.

Tonight, he was more careful. Nine paces and two loose floorboards stood between the window and the chair with the squeaky left armrest. He waited until Dimitri shifted in his sleep, using the rustle of the sheets to glide into the seat, where he perched on his heels with his elbows resting on his knees. Sylvain would say he looked like a petulant gargoyle, but Sylvain was blithely unaware of danger until it kicked him in the teeth. Felix could stay in this crouch for hours, every muscle ready to fire. The last royal Blaiddyd — sod that imbecilic uncle — needed a real protector, not the incompetent sentries who missed someone scrabbling up a wall with a steel lance in broad daylight.

On his watch, Dima would be safe.

At least someone meticulous changed the bandages this time. He inclined his head to study Dimitri’s sleeping face. Another bad dream by the looks of it. He couldn’t fight that kind of foe yet, but if gremories could warp people across fields, he would find a weapon that cut through more than the physical world. For now, he did what he knew best.

“You never could manage on your own,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s why I wanted to be there, because I knew you couldn’t take care of yourself properly. Now look at you.”

He was livid with anger. Glenn’s death was already more than he knew how to handle, enough that he spent nearly every moment trying to carve away the hurt encircling him. What if Felix had lost them both? Two of the only four people who accepted him, gone together with no warning?

“Am I going to have to make a promise with you like I did with Sylvain? Would you be more careful then? I don’t follow you everywhere just because I want to, you know. It’s for your own protection.”

How old were they the first time Dimitri taught him to ride a horse? Eight? Nine? It hadn’t been a happy day: Glenn was returning to Fhirdiad without him, and Sylvain was stuck at home being paraded before idiotic nobles. Dimitri had seen Felix’s face and immediately taken him by the hand, dragging him to the stables.

“I can’t,” Felix said, embarrassed. “They run off with me, I’m too afraid.”

“Trust me,” Dimitri said, and before Felix could object, they were both on that deranged stallion of his, the one he named after the Blaiddyd Relic because the prince always was too sentimental for his own good, and Dima had one strong arm wrapped around Felix’s waist and the other guiding the reins so Felix didn’t have to steer on his own and they flew across the moor like falcons, red-cheeked and breathless in the sharp winter air, Felix feeling his terror transform into unbridled joy because nothing and no one could catch them, and if they ran on like that forever it would be fine because this was where he belonged, this was where he’d always been meant to be…

Enough. He wiped his eyes, furious with himself. Sentiment was pointless, dangerous even. Cut it down and stay focused.

Fifteen minutes until the next guard change. Five minutes until he needed to leave.

He moved like a shadow to the prince’s side. From this close, he could study Dimitri’s face like a battle plan to memorize every curve and contour. It was strategic, obviously, keeping people’s details in your mind in case you lost them. The precise direction their hair fell over their eyes, for example. The angle of their nose down to the tenth of a degree. The specific shade of their lips, maybe even the texture and taste.

Felix hovered until he risked being caught. He cupped his palm so it would fit perfectly against Dimitri’s cheek if he brought it a millimeter closer, feeling the heat, the life, pulse in the space between them.

“You absolute idiot. Do this again, and I’ll kill you myself.”

The gathering dew made the stone wall treacherous, but Felix didn’t slow his descent. This was not how he died.

He was a Fraldarius. They all perished the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #tw - Towards the end of this chapter, Dimitri starts feeling like he doesn't exactly want to die, but also wouldn't mind not being alive anymore. (If this strikes a chord: hi, I see you, and I've been there, and it does indeed suck, and you are not alone.) I'll continue adding chapter-specific warnings at the top with details in end notes to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Coming up: I'm doing my damnedest to stay on schedule with Chapter 4, but Ingrid's being difficult, and I've trashed and rewritten her part five times, and I keep procrastinating and drafting sections that won't be needed for weeks or months, and I just want her POV to not be garbage, Seiros send beta readers — anyway, if it's late, I swear it's on the way. 
> 
> As always, feedback, critiques, corrections gratefully accepted.
> 
> (also, AUGH I fucked up Gilbert/Gustave's name before this chapter and apparently made up?? an accent?? in Miklan's name?? and will 100% be correcting those errors because I just cannot with that, what even the hell.)
> 
> Chapter title: The Mountain Goats, "Transcendental Youth" (https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mountaingoats/transcendentalyouth.html)


	4. Ghosts and Clouds and Nameless Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VISIT FAERGHUS! Tourism Board: How about “Faerghus: A Great Place to Raise a Family” ?
> 
> Marketing consultant: I feel like you are intentionally not listening to our focus groups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a shift here, but Ingrid needed her own chapter for numerous reasons, and the kids deserved a scene where they could just be goofy, shining stars for each other.
> 
> Thanks to each of you who has read, commented, kudos'd (kudosed?) or inspired me through your own beautiful work on this site. You're bright spots during an impressively wtf week in the land of Dysfunctional Families, We Cannot Make up This Shit. I'm working to read and appreciate each of you as well.

#### 1176, Garland Moon, days gone by

A few days before Duscur, five friends gathered over dinner for the last time beneath the soaring, rough-hewn trusses of the palace great hall. 

Ingrid arrived early to snag a coveted bench by the massive stone hearth, wedging herself between quiet officials who fled when Glenn and Sylvain sauntered up. Felix trailed in from the training yard a short time later, still armed. Dimitri bolted from his family’s high table as soon as Lambert gave him a knowing wink, stopping by the kitchen to load a massive platter with roast chicken. They swarmed the meat tower like locusts, too high-spirited for those who preferred a tranquil dining atmosphere. 

Later that evening in the scholars room, a coterie of visiting nobles sipped port-wine digestifs and shared their outrage at the dismal comportment of certain progeny from respectable northern Houses. Had their polite rebukes ever been met with such shocking disrespect? Each pointed cough only provoked louder laughter from the shiftless Gautier heir, egged on by that regrettable second Fraldarius son. And to witness the Fraldarius scion allowing his future bride not only to sup with such rough company, but also to join their horseplay? _Highly inappropriate_ , they sniffed, as was the disappointing behavior of Crown Prince Blaiddyd, who was far more interested in his friends than in maintaining proper decorum.

For his part, Crown Prince Blaiddyd was thrilled to eat with the only people who didn’t force him into the center of attention, and too focused on keeping everyone from toppling the iron candelabras to notice the glares from nearby diners. 

The conversation quickly devolved into one-upping each other with embarrassing stories. It was a beloved pastime, even if Felix pretended otherwise and Dimitri bore the brunt of the punchlines. Glenn always moaned that he found their company tedious, but as usual he laughed the hardest.

“Oh Saint Cichol, remember when Dimitri thought he broke Sylvain?” Ingrid said.

“Who could forget that groan? Like you’d been kicked by a horse.” Felix mimed the way Sylvain had doubled over when Dimitri hugged him too hard.

“Aww, Dimitri, you should have seen your cute little worried face,” Sylvain said, poking his friend affectionately in the neck with a chicken bone.

Dimitri looked pained. “It was not particularly funny to me at the time. I thought I hurt you.”

“Nah, you were too short to crush my spine — you just cracked a few ribs. _Joking_ , Dima, I’m joking. Besides, it takes more than an overeager hug to wound yours truly.”

“Which is why I pushed Sylvain into the pond,” Ingrid said, affectionately rubbing Dimitri’s back.

Felix smirked. “Explain your brilliant plan again? All I remember is Sylvain pulling me underwater when you shoved him off the bank.” He stole Glenn’s remaining chicken wings while his brother chatted up a former classmate from Garreg Mach.

“It was an intentional diversion. His Highness was upset, which we all know makes Felix cranky —”

“Does not.”

“ — and then it’s a matter of time before Sylvain starts moping, so you all needed a distraction from your feelings. Behold, the pond of problem solving.” Ingrid grinned wickedly. “I did what was required for the greater good.”

“I have to say, I’m offended by the implication that only three of us are emotionally codependent. But why target me specifically?” Sylvain kicked her foot under the table, scuffing his boot on the plaster floor in the process.

She reached across the table and swatted his head. “Because you were the instigator, as always. If you hadn’t been so melodramatic when Dimitri knocked the wind out of you, we’d all have stayed dry.”

“Ouch, go easy with those brawling moves. But didn’t you also dunk the Prince of Faerghus? I recall an awful lot of splashing. And why can I picture you fuming in the muck with duckweed in your hair?”

“Oh, I remember now, the whole debacle backfired spectacularly,” Felix said with a gleam in his eye. “I grabbed Ingrid when you dragged me off the bank, and she panicked and took Dimitri with us. We all knocked heads, so I started crying, and then Dimitri started crying because he’s Dima. Wait, Sylvain, didn’t you panic and run away?”

“Scurrilous lies, Felix.”

“You absolutely did abandon them, Gautier,” Glenn chimed in, turning back to the group. “I heard the commotion all the way from the damned stables and came down the hill to discover you soaking wet, sprinting away from two equally drenched, wailing children while Ingrid screamed bloody murder in the cattails. That’s probably why I assumed you were the culprit...Damn it, Felix, did you eat my wings?”

Felix bumped Sylvain to move over so he could evade Glenn’s retaliatory shoulder-punch from over the table. Sylvain obliged and jostled the noble marooned in the end seat on his other side, who delivered a withering glare.

“Glenn, you had ample evidence that angelic Ingrid was the more likely perpetrator,” Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Remember the time you showed up for lunch with a fistful of wildflowers and found her battering these two into submission with her father’s training lance?”

“That’s not how I recall it,” Felix grumbled. 

“You had His Highness’s elbow in your eye, so I doubt you’d have much to go on.”

“Would you at least finish chewing before you speak, Sylvain? You’re spitting gristle everywhere,” Ingrid complained.

“So small but so fierce!” Glenn laughed. “And absolutely no respect for royalty. To see the prince lying stunned with a bloody nose under your little boot? Even as a pigheaded brat myself, I knew it would take more than pretty weeds to impress such a formidable lass.”

“I wish I’d been old enough to remember that scene,” Ingrid said, swiping a chicken thigh from Felix’s plate before he could smack her.

Dimitri rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully with a bare finger. “I do have a vague memory of you clobbering me in the face after Felix called you weak and ducked when you swung.”

“Oh, I remember that one,” Sylvain said. “Not the same incident. This time, you were spacing out watching snowflakes fall when Felix came shrieking around the corner and used you like a shield. You were down before you knew what hit you.”

Glenn snapped his fingers and jabbed one at Felix. “Yes, I can hear your screech. Ah, the dulcet notes of the moment I fell in love with my fair bride-to-be.”

“I hate all of you.” Felix rose and shoved his half-empty plate to the center of the table, giving Dimitri’s shoulder a grudgingly affectionate bump with his hip as he stalked off. 

Ingrid waited for what she felt was a respectful amount of time before hauling the plate back and dumping its contents atop her own.

“What do you think, Glenn? Seems like they’re all overdue for a rematch,” Sylvain said, reaching for the knight’s ale.

Glenn thumped Sylvain, drained his pint, and slammed the empty mug onto the table, causing a noble at the adjacent table to choke on her wine.

“Gautier, you never lack for bad ideas. As the sorry trainer stuck with you knaves, I hereby declare a training joust upon my return. The winner will receive lifelong bragging rights among you four, plus a modicum of respect from your dear mentor until the next time you piss me off.”

“Hold on, I didn’t say I needed to be involved,” Sylvain flung up his arms in mock outrage, accidentally striking Dimitri in the face with a chicken leg.

“Watch the candles,” the prince pleaded.

“Are you forgetting that Felix isn’t a horse person?” Ingrid asked.

“Irrelevant. Consider this a free double lesson from your overworked teacher before your two-week break. First” —Glenn pointed at Sylvain— “stir the pot enough and you’re bound to get splashed. Second” — he yelled across the room to Felix, who pointedly ignored them — “never abandon your friends to their own devices when you’re the only one with a sense of self-preservation.”

“The timing seems unfair,” Dimitri said, wiping chicken grease off his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Come now, Your Highness, don’t look so glum. We’ll be back from Duscur before you lose any of that muscle mass I’ve helped you develop. Even if they did train every day, _Sylvain_ , you’ll be fine as long as you’ve learned how to wield wooden jousting lances without snapping off the handles when you charge.”

Determinedly scraping the meat from a leg bone, Dimitri cracked it into splinters. He sighed and shook his head, dropping the remains on his plate.

“I’ll play, but let’s make it a real challenge,” Ingrid said. “Last one standing fights you, Glenn.”

Glenn flashed Ingrid the cocky smile that had begun making her stomach feel delightfully unsettled.

“What milady wants, milady shall receive. I look forward to defeating you, Galatea.”

“And I await the pleasure of helping you off the ground after I drop you like a stone,” she said, tossing her plaited hair over her shoulder with a giggle as she rose to chase after Felix.

She wished she’d known to linger at the table so her last happy memory could have stretched on into the night.

On the day he left for Duscur, Glenn swept Ingrid off her feet and spun until she leaned into him, giddy and breathless. He bent to her ear and promised that, two weeks later, he would travel to House Galatea with her family, spending three glorious weeks of leave by Ingrid’s side. 

Despite herself, she floated on clouds of girlhood fantasies in the days that followed: long rides through the beech forests in the piedmonts bordering House Conand, a series of spars to show off her progress with blocks and footwork...and finally, on a cloudless, moonlit night, an illicit foray to the top of the Galatea’s modest tower keep for her first real kiss. 

Then, the morning he returned to Fhirdiad, she would tuck her completed letter into his saddle bag. The papers lay folded beneath her pillow for safekeeping; she’d tried to mimic her mother’s formal, dignified writing style, revising her words so often she could picture them in her mind.

_You have asked many times whether I have dreams of my own. Perhaps it has been obvious to you all along that I couldn’t allow myself to imagine anything beyond fulfilling my father’s wishes unless someone I loved pushed me. If so, you were right: each time you pose the question, it becomes harder to believe that the future written for me will be enough._

_When I spar with you or beat the boys, I feel I am cracking open a forbidden book. Every successful hit makes me greedy to glimpse more of that world, to see who I might become with more training and more opportunities to test myself in service of the kingdom. People still speak of House Galatea’s renowned pegasi, though the stables have stood empty for years. I was too young to fly before we sold our herds, but lately in my sleep I soar through the sky while Faerghus spreads before me like a blank page._

_Have you always known? Is that why you made me promise to tell you true when you returned from Duscur? I am afraid to write these words in case I read you wrong, but I can no longer convince myself that I’ll be content at home while you’re off fighting for King Lambert, let alone for His Highness._

_What is my dream? I feel childish even putting it to paper, but I wish to become Knight Galatea, a capable countess wedded to her grand duke, flying above your battalion like someone from a Fódlian legend._

_I wish I had the courage to tell you face to face, but here I am, putting my hope in your hands._

She had imagined how Glenn would find the letter when he unpacked in Fhirdiad, reading it in the knights quarters with his brow slightly furrowed, absently fiddling with his sigil ring as understanding lit his eyes. It was an unusual request, but she was an unusual woman, and surely he knew that by now. For a fleeting stretch of the sweetest days she’d ever tasted, Ingrid allowed herself to feel a new, heretofore unobtainable future coming into reach.

Stupid, stupid girl.

Now, curled in on herself at the window of her cold, silent room in Fhirdiad, she felt familiar, gnawing pangs coil around her insides. 

Hunger was her inheritance.

Crestless and confined to desolate lands, the Galateas scraped by for generations until famine brought them to their knees. Bad seasons, bad harvests, bad blood; like a series of plagues, they decimated Ingrid’s House. 

Some relatives grew desperate enough to attempt the treacherous journey through Ailell, seeking places with House Daphnel. Their ancestral home lacked political clout in the Leicester Alliance, but what did that matter when being a Daphnel meant having enough to eat? 

Most refugees failed. A few times each year, a tattered package returned to Count Galatea. Sometimes it contained a careworn family heirloom, sometimes a tarnished weapon, once a child’s dressing gown. The remnants of their family’s dreams.

The Galateas’ desperate need brokered the marriage agreement with House Fraldarius. Her father gladly offered his territory — poor land, but plenty of it — in exchange for a superior name, full barracks, and food security. Glenn was a way out for every Galatea, the promise of a future governed by wants instead of needs. Ingrid’s blood sealed the deal, a lucrative gain for the elder Crestless son. 

In youth, Ingrid didn’t understand the implications of betrothal, but she saw the longing in her father’s eyes whenever the Fraldariuses came calling. She was more skeptical of anything she couldn’t touch or hold, but she was also a child, only a child, and every passing year kindled her fragile hope as the Count entrusted her to wealthier Houses, grateful for one less mouth to feed. She rode frequent circuits between Galatea, Fhirdiad and Fraldarius (but not Gautier, never Gautier). 

In the north, lords shunned ostentation, but their castles were refuges of unimaginable comfort compared to Galatea’s bleak, empty halls. As she took the best morsels from every offered plate, Ingrid’s guilt quickly subsided. Towards the end of each stay, she’d sneak into the storerooms to pilfer preserved meats and hard cheeses for her family. Glenn, Felix, Dimitri, even Rodrigue would gladly have given what she stole and more, but she was ashamed of her family’s overt need even as she stuffed her face full.

As their friendship deepened into kinship, the boys began packing extra rations on their adventures for the inevitable moments when Ingrid confessed to eating hers hours earlier, and she returned the favor by teaching them new defensive moves during pitched battles over their favorite snacks. Dimitri found her insatiable appetite bemusing, Felix annoying. Only Sylvain had more than an inkling of what drove her to throw elbows for a piping-hot pasty. 

During the famine’s peak, the Fraldarius men and their ever-present shadow visited in the waning days of an anemic autumn harvest. Even at eight years old, Ingrid understood that her father had asked Rodrigue to come for her. She wondered if it was her life or her Crest that made her worth saving, and whether the answer even mattered.

Ingrid had risen in the dark, sneaking out while the rest of the family slept. She donned two heavy woolen cloaks and took an empty flour sack to the orchards so she could gather the last fallen nuts before red squirrels secreted them away for good.

She intended to carry home her gleanings and roast them for everyone, but by dawn she fell on her harvest like a starving jackdaw, hammering open the shells with a hoof pick and wolfing down the meats in rapid succession. She was pawing through the moldering detritus beneath a massive chestnut tree when familiar voices approached. Humiliated, she contemplated running, but winter storms threatened, and anything left would be lost beneath deep snow. She hunkered motionless in the crumbling leaves, hoping no one looked her way.

They materialized out of the thick fog riding at a slow walk across the fields, only a few hundred yards from her. Sylvain trailed behind Felix and Glenn, sporting a broken nose. He was talking to his horse in a soft, gentle voice that he rarely used with people, and his eyes were twin flames of desire locked on the bickering brothers. When he spotted Ingrid, she met his curious gaze with a defiant stare and saw him in her reflection, hollowed out with want. An understanding passed between them; he fixed his eyes forward and continued on without hailing her to the others. 

Hours later, when she returned home half-full and empty-handed with dirt caked under her short nails, Sylvain greeted her warmly as if for the first time. She ignored his battered face and did the same. Open secrets were safe when no one looked too long.

Since Duscur, Ingrid heard Syl pace outside the door every few hours, but she was trapped in a place she foolishly thought she’d escaped forever, where she felt small and mean and unable to care about anyone but herself. She didn’t want his company for both their sakes.

What would happen to her? Count Galatea was a patient man who fed her and half the territory to his personal detriment, but her father’s love was entangled with his need and desire and her Crest-bearing blood. She alone could prevent House Galatea from being lost to the kingdom’s historical texts. What if he turned to the most obvious solution, and Rodrigue agreed? Would Ingrid and Felix be forced together by the life they’d lost? 

Emptiness cut like a blade in her belly as she considered the long, lean time to come. She would dig up the lessons of famine years and relinquish every goal but surviving one minute, one hour, one day. Rise the next, gird her heart, repeat the cycle until the inevitable end, however it arrived.

Soon, she would find the will to rise and cast her unfinished letter on the hearth, sit vigil in the palace chapel, bury her hopes with Glenn. Next, she would embrace existing instead of living, day after day, year after year, to ensure that House Galatea met a softer fate. 

First, she would linger at the window to watch the sun and moon chase each other over Fhirdiad, listening for the sound of pegasus wings high above, wondering how she’d ever let herself believe that, one day, she might take flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: The Mountain Goats, "Maybe Sprout Wings"  
> https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mountaingoats/maybesproutwings.html
> 
> Recalling the table manners and volume levels of my middle school pack, it's a wonder we were allowed in public. 
> 
> I may have some every-other-week instead of weekly updates as harebrained one-offs in my head start demanding to be written. Will flag if so. 
> 
> fun fact: the "t" key on my laptop keeps falling off, and because #pandemic getting it fixed is a nightmare. Do you know how many times we use the letter "t" in daily life? A LOT OF TIMES


	5. Bury the Dead Where They’re Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Won’t someone think of the children?
> 
> Faerghus: lol no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: survivor’s guilt, Acute Stress Disorder, allusions to dissociation
> 
> See end notes for details + a diatribe I needed to get off my chest, apparently
> 
> heckin' plot dev + trying to give the political machinations plausibility = late update, thanks for your patience and for the kudos and the comments and the love <3

### Bury the Dead Where They’re Found

#### 1176, Garland Moon, eighth day

Pushing another tasteless breakfast across his plate, Dimitri’s thoughts drifted to his last, raucous meal with Glenn and his friends, when he’d eaten too fast to really taste the food. 

He closed his eyes and concentrated until he could smell the aroma of roasted meat wafting through the cavernous hall. Straining, he could almost detect a hint of salt and grease on his tongue. 

If only he could make himself believe it.

A soft tap at the open door. He jumped, sending his fork clattering off the plate.

“My apologies for startling you, Your Highness. May I sit with you awhile?” Rodrigue offered a fatigued bow, still in the same clothes he’d worn the previous day.

“Of course, Rodrigue, I’d welcome company.” Dimitri assembled his features into a smile and hid his trembling hands under the blanket. It was just a knock. 

Duke Fraldarius settled in the wooden chair on Dimitri’s right, its left arm protesting with a jagged squeak.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

Dimitri considered the question, weighing his options as he poked a cold sausage with his knife. 

“The bishop says I’m healing faster than she’d hoped,” he finally said. “I would like to walk around a bit today, if the doctors allow it. Being in bed this long doesn’t feel natural."

“You sound like your father. He and Glenn put up a fight every time they needed to recover, even when I threatened to tie them to their beds…forgive me, highness, I can’t...” Rodrigue looked broken and turned away, collecting himself.

Unbidden tears welled. Dimitri longed for his father’s arms, his stepmother’s gentle hands, Glenn’s easy banter. He wanted to bury his head in the Shield’s chest while the story threw lifelines for him to grasp. 

Grief emptied him out and weighed him down. Maybe people never spoke of loss because it defied words. It made a mockery of his physical pain, hurt so much that staring at the wall exhausted him. 

Alone, he told himself stories from take-for-granted times: the way his father steadied a horse, the set of Glenn’s teeth when they sparred. But death was more vivid. 

No matter how hard he pushed back, he couldn’t sweep away the sight of them. Did the stench and bedlam of battles linger with knights who survived? Did Rodrigue walk through valleys of bodies in his dreams?

Dimitri was working up the courage to choke out his questions when Rodrigue reached out to wipe away his tears with a gloved thumb, looking troubled.

“You must be strong, Dimitri,” he urged, clasping the prince’s shoulders. “King Lambert...your father would want us to be strong for him and for Faerghus. If you steel your heart, the evil in this world cannot tear it out of you.”

Dimitri nodded, but his lips quivered and a sob swelled in his throat. He felt a rush of shame and took a shuddering breath, steadying himself under Rodrigue’s hand.

“There you are. It’s all right, Your Highness. You’re all right.” Rodrigue sounded subdued but proud, so Dimitri bit his lip and drew himself up with a chagrined smile.

“Thank you, Rodrigue,” he said, and the quaver in his voice was nearly undetectable.

Rodrigue smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Do you feel up to discussing the kingdom?”

There was only one answer to that, so Dimitri nodded.

“Grand Duke Blaiddyd officially assumed the regency yesterday with support from all of the high lords. In his first act as protector of the realm, he sent messages to each Faerghus territory requesting support for a retaliatory strike against Duscur.”

Dimitri’s mouth went dry. “Faerghus intends to invade Duscur?” 

Rodrigue nodded, keeping a neutral face, but Dimitri saw tension wrinkle the corners of his eyes.

“I have urged him to allow more time for a full investigation, but the territories are in an uproar, and many influential nobles are calling for complete extermination of the Duscur people. Rufus believes that a swift response will send a strong message to enemies who may be incited to attack the kingdom during his transition.”

“No, that cannot happen. Rodrigue, please, this is a mistake. With due respect, my uncle was not on the road — I was. He needs to hear what I saw, he needs to know that the people who attacked us were not from Duscur!”

In desperation, Dimitri cast his mind back to the attack, stumbling over the gore and viscera until he stood before the dead soldier with the silver breastplate who clutched a broadsword worth its weight in mythril.

“There were wyvern and pegasus riders, armor and weapons that came from well-funded militaries, dark magic rivaling the spells of our most-skilled mages. Rodrigue, we spent months at my father’s side while he reviewed intelligence reports and spoke with Duscur diplomats. Did anything you learned indicate a capacity for professional warfare?”

“No, I have similar memories, but we face a difficult situation, Your Highness. High lords in border regions will support this response to further suppress agitators in Sreng and other foreign lands. You know, too, the envoy mission was unpopular with many Houses, and Lambert’s taxation and trade reforms added to the tension.”

“Surely the Church will help us?”

“Recall that the Church of Seiros opposed this treaty effort from the beginning. I find it unlikely that they will involve themselves now.”

“Rodrigue, please, my father would not want — ”

“Greetings, your princeliness — oh, and _hellooo, Rodrigue_ ,” Sylvain sauntered into the room without knocking, amplifying his final few words for reasons that became clear as Felix trailed in a few steps later.

Rodrigue stiffened in his seat, pained and uncertain. Felix scuffed his toe on the floor, refusing to look at his father.

“Ah, we can come back,” Sylvain offered, nervously glancing between father and son.

“Let’s do that.” Felix grabbed Sylvain’s forearm and spun on his heel, halfway out the door before Rodrigue came to life and stood.

“Please, stay and visit with the prince. I’m sure His Highness would prefer your company to mine. Dimitri, I will consider how to approach your uncle myself in case it’s needed, but the appeal may hold more sway coming directly from you.” 

He paused at the door and turned to face his son. 

Felix was folded arms and a jutting chin. Braced shoulders. Squared hips. Molten gold eyes sparked and flared, shouting what the tight, flat line of his mouth refused. He burned like a smoldering ember in dry pine needles.

Sylvain tried to warn Rodrigue, tell him to leave, for reasons he’d never be able to parse.

Rodrigue opened his mouth, extended his hand. 

“Get out,” Felix growled. “I don’t want to look at you.”

“Felix, please —”

The fire exploded. 

“OUT!” Felix roared, flames rising in his face. He scuffed at the corners of his eyes where hot tears flashed, took an angry stride towards his father. 

At the sight of his son undone, Rodrigue froze, his lapis blue eyes turning to ice. He dropped his arm and swept from the room without a backward glance.

Felix huffed and turned back to face Dimitri, extinguishing his emotions as quickly as they ignited. 

“So, this is where he’s been hiding out,” Felix said darkly. 

“Felix, I am so happy to see you.” 

Dimitri ignored the pain that juddered up his spine as his feet hit the floor, and didn’t notice he’d snagged one of Sylvain’s neatly wrapped bandages on the splintered bed frame. Trailing lengths of unravelling material from his fingertips to his elbow, Dimitri grabbed Felix’s hands and pulled him close, a mix of relief and trepidation dancing in his blue eyes.

Too much, too soon. Sylvain couldn’t watch.

“Let go, you’re going to crush every bone in my sword hand.” Felix recoiled and pushed Dimitri in the chest, rocking back on his heels to make more space between them. 

Dimitri shrank back, looking chastened. He busied himself with trying to rewrap his palm.

“I’m sorry, Felix. I let myself get carried away. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable...Oh no.” The bandage needed its own healer as Dimitri’s nervous energy triggered his Crest strength. 

Sylvain kicked Felix in his Achilles tendon.

“For goddess’s sake, stop making it worse,” Felix grumbled. “Get back into bed and let me fix this mess.”

Dimitri sat on the edge of the bed with his hand resting on his thigh, while Felix wordlessly opened a hand in Sylvain’s general direction. Sylvain gave in and retrieved new wrappings from the cabinet, which he passed to Felix, who launched himself at Dimitri’s arm like it was an enemy combatant.

“Are you sure you want to let him do that, Your Highness? I’ve seen how tight he wraps his sword grips.”

Two searing gold daggers stabbed Sylvain in the face.

“Sorry, Felix. I suppose I should just be glad you’re paying this visit the conventional way. As my witness, am I right, or am I right that the cute guard’s taken a shine to me? She didn’t even try to shove me down the stairs this time.”

Dimitri looked between them like a lost dog. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘conventional way’?”

Sylvain risked an actual stabbing. “Yes, Felix, whatever do I mean?”

Felix bared his teeth and positively snarled at Sylvain. “Goddess damn it, I can’t concentrate with your incessant talking. Either go harass the guard — who clearly despises you — or sit down and keep quiet.”

Sylvain snagged an untouched rasher off Dimitri’s plate and dramatically flopped back in the chair, watching the prince’s eyes widen as Felix cut off all circulation below his elbow. 

He bit his tongue, determined not to tempt fate.

He failed.

“Hey, Mitya, did you ever figure out where that lance came from? I wonder — Indech’s dick!” Felix cracked Sylvain across the tender part of his upper arm.

As Sylvain whined, Felix turned back to Dimitri. 

“What was going on with the old man anyway? I can feel the tension all the way down to your fingers.”

Dimitri could no longer feel his fingers. Or his hand. He watched with growing concern as Felix made another tight loop.

“As expected, my uncle assumed the regency and is planning the kingdom’s retaliation. Rufus is moving too fast, blaming all of Duscur for the regicide. He needs to hear from someone who survived…” The sentence died on his tongue. 

He glanced up awkwardly through a fringe of blond eyelashes, but Felix refused to meet his eyes. Using his free hand, he traced a feather-light inquiry on Felix’s bare wrist. Felix shook his head once, hard, his brow furrowed. In response, Dimitri lifted all but one finger off the smooth, pale skin, feeling the pulse flutter under his touch. If this was all the language they had left, he’d study until he was fluent.

Sylvain brandished the remains of Dimitri’s breakfast like he was holding court. 

“I don’t understand why Rodrigue and the rest of court don’t send the grand duke packing back to Itha.”

“Because our future king is thirteen years old, which you know damned well is reason enough. Quit pretending to be stupid. It doesn’t work with us,” Felix snapped.

“It works often enough.” Sylvain grabbed the final sausage and wolfed it down.

“The Church of Seiros recognizes Rufus as a legitimate ruler — he’s the only Blaiddyd left besides me. Until I turn eighteen, the grand duke is the kingdom’s regent barring some catastrophe that none of us wants.” Dimitri made a face. “From what I’ve overheard in council here and there, I suspect he’s been currying favor with the high lords for years on the chance he’d need to leverage their goodwill one day.”

“He might burn through that support faster than you think. The man makes me look like a monk, Dimitri.” 

“Rufus is not my primary concern right now.” Dimitri twisted his tangled hair with his free hand until Sylvain worried he’d pull out a hank by the roots.

They all fell silent, looking everywhere but in each others’ faces. A flock of sparrows caterwauled in the thick hedgerow beneath the open window. Finally, Sylvain cleared his throat.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Dimitri looked grim. “Royal troops may leave for Duscur tomorrow. It’s a gamble for Rufus, but I fear it will work because it gives my father’s skeptics the excuse to solve two problems at once.”

“Keep our borders closed and lay the groundwork to roll back King Lambert’s reforms.” Sylvain tapped his chin thoughtfully. “That’s actually pretty clever. I’m surprised Rufus has it in him.”

“Rufus was among the biggest skeptics. Sylvain, I will remember that you’ve been hiding a tactician’s mind.”

“I’m not concerned. We have years before you can appoint me to anything, which means I have plenty of time to undo your good opinions. I see why you’re worried, but at least they’re targeting the people who murdered your family?”

Dimitri shook his head fiercely. “I know what I saw. Our attackers were not from Duscur.”

“Who were they?” 

“I don’t know yet, but I will.”

Sylvain almost kept going, but Felix had closed up like a tulip at dusk. He decided to let the conversation burn out and carefully nudged the other youth’s heel with his boot, just to remind Felix that he was there.

Oblivious, Dimitri continued.

“However long it takes, I am going to find the killers, and I will make them pay for every last drop of blood they drew. But right now, Faerghus must not slaughter innocent people in our haste for revenge. I cannot let senseless violence happen in the names of our loved ones.”

“That’s a heavy responsibility to put on yourself,” Sylvain said, unnerved by the ferocious glint in Dimitri’s eyes.

“And a pointless one.” Felix breached his silence with a torrent of words. “You survived; they died. It wasn’t fate, or duty, or glorious sacrifice — it was meaningless chance. Vengeance doesn’t matter. Whatever the dead thought, they’re dead. They don’t care what happens next. Why is everyone so intent on lionizing them? What about the people who are still here? Fuck this, I need to get back to training.” He dropped Dimitri’s hand, which he’d held all this time.

“Oh, okay.” Dimitri looked sadly at his open palm.

“What? You’re not going anywhere, I’ll come by when I finish. Anyway, I brought you these.” 

Felix withdrew a slightly squashed packet from his teal overcoat and shoved it towards Dimitri. Sylvain could tell by the aroma that it contained fresh biscuits from the city bakery, which was so popular that customers lined up before the shop opened.

Dimitri’s eyes brightened as he grabbed one. He took a rapturous bite and started chewing, but his face fell.

“What, not good enough for you? Sorry I didn’t get there at dawn to claim the best ones.”

“No, no,” Dimitri feigned a smile and frantically waved his hand, showering crumbs across the floor. “They are lovely, Felix, so fresh and warm. My teeth still hurt when I chew, that’s all.”

“Whatever.” Felix started to walk away, but Dimitri reached up and grabbed his wrist.

“Felix, wait.”

Felix hesitated but didn’t turn back. Sylvain read the tense set of his shoulders and the tightness of his jaw. He lightly put a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and shook his head.

Dimitri sighed and released him. “Never mind. But I do want to say thank you. For the lance. Getting it through the window must have taken significant effort.”

Scarlet rose from Felix’s neckline to the edges of his ears. Sylvain stifled a cackle. 

“You drool in your sleep, you know. It’s gross,” Felix finally retorted and stormed out the door.

Sylvain rolled off the chair and collapsed on the floor with his face buried in his arms, shoulders shaking.

“You are a devious bastard, Your Highness.”

Dimitri’s lips quirked. “I am merely trying to be a gracious recipient.”

“Saints, it’s good to have you back.”

Dimitri’s small smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. Sylvain mentally kicked himself and changed the subject.

“Let’s rewrap that arm before it falls off. After that, you’re going to speak with your uncle as soon as I leave, aren’t you?”

Dimitri nodded, looking determined — and scared, Sylvain thought.

“I have to, Sylvain. Faerghus is in turmoil, and people are looking to us for answers. My father risked everything to bring this alliance to fruition. If we scapegoat Duscur for these crimes, we will unleash the kingdom’s fear and hate against a nation that trusted House Blaiddyd when we offered peace. How will our word mean anything to anyone after this?”

“I hate to say it, but I think you’re right about what you said earlier, about the high lords. Look at Gautier and Galatea. My father will see this as an opportunity to put the fear of the goddess into Sreng, and the Count will gladly go along with revenge against people he thinks stole his family’s future. I don’t know whether anyone will listen to reason on this, Dimitri. Wouldn’t this be an excellent time to let the hand of the king do his job?”

“The situation is delicate. Together, my father and Rodrigue had the names and histories to pressure other high lords into reforms that they wouldn’t choose for themselves. Without King Lambert, Rodrigue is vulnerable. He is valuable, of course, but Rufus is a bitter man who will sideline him if he thinks the Shield is a threat. And if their relationship sours, we lose the one court member left with enough influence to mediate our kingdom’s less altruistic impulses.”

Dimitri stood and stumbled slightly, wincing as he planted his left foot fully on the ground. Sylvain rose to brace his shoulder under Dimitri’s arm.

“Grab that lance, highness, but promise you’ll use it as a crutch instead of spearing your uncle when you see him.”

“You don’t have to help me, Syl.”

Sylvain snorted. “If I let you go down those stairs right now, will you stay upright or fall on your face? Let’s move before anyone else comes to check on you.”

What Sylvain did not say was that Dimitri’s Crest was pulsing erratically under his shirt like distant lightning. He needed to stay in bed, not fling himself on the mercy of an uncle who despised him. If the kingdom’s response hinged on the words of a single survivor speaking against generations of fear and suspicion, Duscur was already lost.

In the west courtyard, passing officials hesitated at the sight of their future king limping across the green with help from a steel lance and a son of Gautier. But like good Faerghan nobles, they snapped their eyes ahead and strode forward. On a morning like this, when a new, less familiar Blaiddyd held their lives and livelihoods in his hands, what the crown prince did was his own business.

It was an arduous climb up two flights of stairs to the throne room. Sylvain paused often based on the sweat beading at Dimitri’s hairline, since the prince would never ask to rest on his own.

The guards lowered their pikes and bowed to Dimitri, who returned a courteous nod and tapped Sylvain’s back to stop.

“I should go in alone,” he said, his face drawn. 

“Are you sure? You look like you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Sylvain, I am about to challenge the judgment of the man ruling in my name. I can’t let you risk your reputation for me.”

“Dimitri, please, I tarnish my reputation every day for far less.” 

Dimitri pressed his lips together and shook his head stubbornly. 

“If you’re sure…” Sylvain eased his arm out from under Dimitri’s shoulders. “I’ll wait out here, okay?” 

Dimitri took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, giving Sylvain one last look of thanks before the guards opened the massive double doors for him to enter.

Lambert often conducted business on the road or worked from the cozy, austere office behind the throne room itself. Dimitri still felt heartsick seeing someone else in his seat.

Rufus was all spindly angles and sharp edges, a fir stunted by the shadows of taller trees. He dressed like a man determined to be his brother’s opposite; gaudy gems sparkled on each finger and elaborate filigree adorned his cobalt cape. His dishwater-blond hair was cropped tight to his skull, contrasting sharply with the greying beard that cascaded from his cheeks.

Lambert and Rufus had a tense relationship exacerbated by Dimitri’s birth. Rufus viewed the crown as his stolen birthright, Dimitri an undeserving heir, and the grand dukedom an insulting consolation; while well-resourced and secure, Itha was a sparsely populated region known primarily for the monsters that roamed its vast forests. No surprise, then, that he occupied the sturdy ironwood throne like he had been born to it. No surprise he avoided Dimitri for most of his nephew’s life.

The throne room was not large, perhaps a quarter the size of their great hall, but Rodrigue was stationed far from the regent, nearly pressed against the open window shutters on the right. On the left, royal mage Cornelia Arnim stood closer than propriety allowed, near enough that her breath whispered across the grand duke’s head. She studied Dimitri with veiled interest.

“Prince Blaiddyd, I am glad to see you up and about so soon after your injuries.” The regent's words were joyless, his umber eyes hard as stone.

Dimitri halted before three timber steps leading to the throne and executed a careful, deep bow, gripping the lance with white knuckles and hissing through clenched teeth as his knee touched the sandstone floor.

“Uncle, I am sorry for the circumstances that brought you here, and for the loss of your brother. King Lambert was well-loved by our people.”

His uncle nodded, looking bored. 

“Your Highness, may I express my deepest grief and condolences for your family’s losses.” The royal mage placed a hand over her heart and bowed so her strawberry-blonde hair concealed her face. 

Dimitri mumbled an appropriate response. He was already tired of the empty words people parroted as soon as they saw him. He felt less like a person than collateral damage that made everyone uncomfortable.

“What brings you here in such a state, highness? Even Blaiddyds need a few more days to recover from such terrible wounds.” The mage slowly rotated her ashwood staff so the jeweled handle reflected the light.

Dimitri hesitated. When he was only three, Cornelia had stopped the plague that ravaged Faerghus and killed Dimitri’s mother. As a reward, King Lambert granted her one of the most powerful advisory positions in court, a role she had retained for over a decade. But something about the court mage always made Dimitri uneasy. 

He made a calculated decision and angled his face away from the Shield, speaking to his uncle and the royal mage as if he knew nothing.

“Lady Arnim, I wish to speak privately with my uncle about the attack. I would like to share information that might be helpful in his search for justice.” 

“Unnecessary. Justice will be underway shortly,” Rufus grumbled.

“If I may, my lord.” Cornelia inclined her head towards Rufus and even brushed his hand. He gestured for her to hurry up. She glided into the light and closed the distance to Dimitri, arranging her features in a sympathetic expression.

“I have spoken with the royal physicians and healers about your condition. Perhaps tonight, I might offer one of the spells that always soothed your father after a hard battle.” 

She emphasized her words with a knowing tilt of her head, and Dimitri wondered if he’d been shouting in his sleep. He tried steering the conversation back to the point, starting with a simpler request. 

“Thank you, Lady Arnim. Dear uncle, when you bring home our dead, I hoped we might spare a brace of wyverns to Duke Fraldarius so he can return Glenn to Fraldarius as soon as possible for a proper burial.”

Again, Cornelia spoke in place of Rufus.

“Sweet prince, has no one told you?” Cornelia looked irritatedly at Rodrigue. “Several days have passed, and the mountains are wild, inhospitable places. The wolves, you know,” she said with a shudder, as if he hadn’t been in those mountains, as if he needed a reminder of what remained in pieces on the bloody ground.

Dimitri slowly twisted a corner of his linen hospital shirt in one hand, tearing it thread by thread. 

“Rest assured, nephew,” Rufus spoke at last, “I will lead our battalions and bring home what the goddess allows us to recover.”

Dimitri released his shredded hem. “Battalions?”

“Yes, yes, I kept our council late into the night discussing how to avenge our family’s destruction. Many of our finest noble Houses lost members in Duscur, beyond which regicide is a crime against the goddess herself. I have messengers out now requesting reinforcements from every territory within a two-day ride of the border, and the crown will offer rewards to Houses that distinguish themselves in the field. The full might of Faerghus will grind Duscur into the dust before we rest.”

“You mean to annihilate the Duscur people?” Dimitri’s hands shook.

Malevolence bloomed in the grand duke’s eyes. 

“I mean to respond to the tragedy of Duscur in kind. We will give no quarter and show no mercy to those ‘people,’ as you call them, until every last heretic is wiped from the earth and no one remains to mourn them. May their end be a lesson for other enemies to heed.” Rufus stood as if the conversation had finished.

“No, that cannot happen. Uncle Rufus — that is, my lord, please, this is a terrible mistake.” 

Cornelia drew even closer and gave Dimitri a patronizing smile. 

“Dear regent,” she said over her shoulder, “we should be honored by your nephew’s concern. Despite suffering such loss from these unbelievers, he would stay our hand to find a more peaceful solution. Our late king would be proud of his son’s ideals.”

“Perhaps he would, if my brother’s ideals hadn’t killed him,” Rufus said in a droll tone.

Dimitri took a ragged breath. He could feel it coming, but this anger was new and violently alive and it ran in his blood like a bolting Blaiddyd charger, and he did not know how to hold it.

“With due respect, you were not there — you did not see what I did. We were attacked with such speed and force that even Glenn fell within minutes. I saw my father beheaded with axes as finely forged as any in Faerghus. This was a coordinated, professional ambush that took time and resources to achieve. You must believe me when I say that our attackers were not from Duscur!” 

Rufus looked annoyed. “Dear boy, from what I understand, they found you barely alive and rambling on about dead men. The goddess will forgive us for finding you an unreliable witness. Whatever you think you saw, the truth of Duscur’s nature has been laid bare. The treaty cannot go forward. I’m afraid your father expected too much from those who willingly live apart from Fódlan, a mistake that Faerghus will not make again.”

“I am not a boy any longer and I know what I saw,” Dimitri snarled.

“Your Highness, this conversation is clearly straining you. Have faith in your regent and return to the infirmary before you exhaust yourself,” Cornelia said, staring impolitely, no longer masking her interest in his emotional state.

“My lord, _please._ Our military will be out of control if we send them so soon after the attack. They will ravage Duscur, and countless people will die. Uncle, I know you love Faerghus with a Blaiddyd’s devotion. Do not soak the kingdom’s hands with innocent blood in my name or in the name of my father.”

“Everything I do is in your name, boy. It is my duty, after all.” Rufus smiled, cold and calculating. 

“You would murder a nation and call it duty?” Dimitri growled.

Fury throbbed behind his eyes. Rage surged in his gut, snapped at his heart, crackled under his skin as the Blaiddyd Crest stirred.

He wanted to tear out his memories and hurl them at their feet, wet and bloody for everyone to see. He wanted to leap the stairs and drive the lance clean through his uncle’s chest. He watched himself take a single step forward as Rufus shrank back.

Rodrigue called the prince by name. 

Panting and nauseated, Dimitri jolted back to himself and realized he’d gripped the lance with enough force that the metal whined and the wounds on his hand reopened. 

“Are you well, Your Highness?” Cornelia studied Dimitri openly, curiosity and disgust playing across her face. The corner of her mouth twisted into a vicious smile.

“...Forgive me.” 

Dimitri lowered his head and dropped his eyes, overcome with shame. He’d never, ever seen his father lose composure until the moment his killers approached. Now his son stood shaking and sweating in the throne room, on the verge of...what? He didn’t know. 

His survival was a twisted joke.

 _So are you_ , Glenn whispered.

“Let me explain how we will proceed, Prince Blaiddyd.” Rufus adjusted his robes and settled back into the throne with a languid, cruel expression, all traces of his previous fear erased. “To protect the kingdom, we will answer the enemies who would see our people undone, and you have no place in that response. My advice to you is to honor your father’s legacy by staying out of the people’s affairs until you are older and capable of self-restraint.”

Dimitri stared at his bandaged hands, bleeding through again. 

He remembered times when he’d accompanied his father into Fhirdiad to visit the town council. Their retinue would occasionally cross paths with a madman in the streets who would pause his ravings to stare directly at Dimitri with wild eyes. Even as a child, hadn’t he felt a chill of recognition run down his spine when he looked into the beggar’s afflicted face? 

The room fell silent as Fhirdiad’s cathedral bells tolled the changing hour. 

Dimitri was King Lambert’s son. His father would expect him to act like a king until his dying breath. He bowed long and low. He hid his pain.

“My lord. My lady. My duke. I apologize for my behavior. Thank you for the audience. ”

Cornelia knelt to intercept Dimitri mid-bow. He acquiesced without a sound, ignoring the searing hurt in his knee, his back, his hands, his head. She cupped his chin in her hand, a predatory gleam in her eye.

“What a toll this tragedy has taken on you. I will pray for your full recovery, highness.” 

The regent made a satisfied grunt as Dimitri limped away in despondent silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Sufjan Stevens, [The Only Thing](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/sufjanstevens/theonlything.html), which could apply to several chapters of Dima's life AAAHHH 
> 
> TW: This chapter honestly is a mess of emotional fallout from Dimitri losing his family, so I don’t feel right saying “read this but not that” because any of it might be difficult for you, and please don’t put yourself through reading something if it’s too much.
> 
> Depending on whether I split the next chapter or not, I don't expect to post on time because Duscur is coming and racism is an issue that FE3H sucks at addressing. SUUUCKS. I’m not hitting publish until I feel reasonably certain I’m not adding fuel to that tire fire. (Dear Ingrid, you are not off the hook either.) In the meantime, go read [Antimonicacid’s "Another Dedue Essay"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683735) if you’re new to engaging in critical thinking around how race and popular culture intersect (if you are, it’s ok! Now get to learning!).
> 
> The rest of what follows here is my take, and my take only, with all the caveats that I’m a white, straight-presenting, relatively well-off person and so my mental health journey is only mine. I wish I could tl;dr it for you, but alas.
> 
> I’ve had some lengthy conversations with very smart people on social lately that have helped me articulate why this story in particular matters to me. 
> 
> Too many hot takes on Dimitri literally use terms like “a dog that needs to be put down.” Yes, let’s ignore the well-developed character back stories that spell out how massive, chronic trauma can do a number on anyone, particularly in the absence of social and cultural support systems. What a monster, right?
> 
> Fuck. That. It’s wishful thinking from people who are fortunate enough to have no concept of what it’s like to struggle with your own brain chemistry. The common thread, to me, is fear: we want to believe our brains are fully in our control, that nothing could ever happen to make us act in ways that conflict with who we believe ourselves to be. When faced with something terrifying, you can ignore it, lean into it, or lash out. A lot of people lash out. Problem is, that sends a pretty terrible message to anyone who finds Dimitri somehow relatable.
> 
> Look: the reason I’m back writing after years of failure is because the Blue Lions (in my case, Dimitri and Sylvain in particular) speak to me. Does my emotional fuckuppery resemble theirs? No. But there is something about their journeys that makes it easier for me to weave my lived experience into my stories, when in the past I didn’t want to share those parts of me. 
> 
> So in whatever I write, Dimitri is a person who still has emotions and feelings and relatively good moments because he is not just his trauma. Same with how he has friends who help him through but aren’t his magical mental health healers. (Also applicable to all of the Faerghus Four.)
> 
> Writing about survivor’s guilt, PTSD, depression, anxiety (+ the myriad other things that you could plausibly attribute to any one of these kids) is something I take seriously. It’s hard to do when your characters live in a world that didn’t understand any of this, in a culture that makes no space for it, absent adult support, at an age where even articulating your regular day-to-day feelings is hard enough. It’s a lot of research and rewriting. So I can’t promise I won’t fuck this up, and I hope you’ll let me know if I do. In the end, if we can put stories into the world for people who don’t always feel heard, maybe that’s something.


	6. My Heart’s an Autoclave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KING LAMBERT’S GHOST: ...The fuck did we do to these kids?
> 
> GLENN’S GHOST: i fucking told you
> 
> KING LAMBERT’S GHOST: Well, at least Rodrigue will set things right.
> 
> GLENN’S GHOST: …
> 
> GLENN’S GHOST: dude are you even paying attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, if I don't make the chapter summaries stupid it's too much despair even for me
> 
> tw’s, plural: the first section is a flock of dead doves; please see end note for details
> 
> also hi i like horses can you tell (you should check out [sydneyhorses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyHorses/pseuds/SydneyHorses) [breed guide](https://twitter.com/edelgardlesbian/status/1308891523078074369?s=20) for Fódlan which I absolutely used). thanks also to [MxMearcstapa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxMearcstapa/pseuds/MxMearcstapa) for support and beta during dimitri's entirely reasonable loss of religious faith

When the doors swung open, Sylvain was there.

He caught Dimitri as the prince stumbled over the threshold, grief-struck and silent. Sylvain gathered him in tight, fear pressing a foot on his throat.

“What happened, Your Highness?...Dimitri?”

Dimitri floated lost in Sylvain’s arms with the forgotten lance hanging loose in his hand. Its blade cast fragmented shards of sun across the floor.

Sylvain stood at an open stall door in the Gautier stables with Gwendolen’s empty bridle dangling from his gloved fingers. Time passed; his toes were chunks of ice inside his fur-lined boots, and delicate frost feathered his lashes.

Jammed point-down in the dirt, the knife sent weak winter light slicing across his pony’s body. 

Sylvain dug a hole and dropped the cruel blade deep in the muck behind the stables. He scrubbed his hands under the pump until his knuckles bled. His fault, it was always his fault, bound up with his brother by the blood they despised.

In the tack room, he cleaned the unused bridle twice in the proper order. He’d let his vigilance drop the last time, and look what happened. Crown, browband, throatlatch, cheeks, caveson, bit, reins. Inner surfaces before outer, twenty four counterclockwise scrubs per piece — miss one and start again. He wrapped the throatlatch six times around the cheek pieces and hung it from the third hook on the second row and turned to the next one. By the time a groom sprinted past and vomited in the wheelbarrow, he’d started on the saddles. He systematically worked through the endless rows of bits and leathers and irons until his fingers were too tired to continue. 

Fuck, he thought he’d buried that memory. 

Sylvain nervously glanced down at his friend, but Dimitri’s eyes were as vacant as he expected his had been. Goddess above, this was not something he knew how to handle. He wearily rubbed a hand across his face and squeezed the prince around his shoulders.

“Hey, Dima, we should go, yeah? Get you back in bed to rest?”

Dimitri blinked and refocused on Sylvain’s embrace, considering the situation. He sighed. “I am sorry, Sylvain. For…” He gestured vaguely at himself.

“Don’t, Mitya. If you start doing that, I’ll have to apologize every time I see you.” 

Glib was a good reflex. Glib let him concentrate on slamming the elaborate sequence of doors that kept the stable out of sight.

“I think I need to pray,” Dimitri said. “There’s a place I know not far from here. You should go, you have done more than enough. I promise to be careful on the stairs. Thank you, Syl.” Ever the dutiful prince, he put a reassuring hand on Sylvain’s arm.

Sylvain hesitated. “Want company later?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I hear sleeping is good for you. Perhaps I’ll give it a try tonight.” A smile struggled across Dimitri’s face. “I am okay, Sylvain. Go.”

Courage and cowardice warred in his gut. Dimitri was still a terrible liar, but Sylvain couldn’t ask questions for which he himself had no answer. A true friend would do better, call the bluff, refuse the order, but he was only Sylvain, teetering on the brink with a fraying rope of his thoughts and he'd fall forever if it snapped and he was worthless worthless worthless worthless.

He descended the stairs two at a time, mind racing. Felix would still be at the training yards. Felix would read his face and shove a lance in his hands, make him fight his bad impulses, but Felix had enough to battle and it was easier, so much easier, keeping to the safer, shit-strewn path.

Sylvain went straight to his room, where he pulled on his best wool coat and changed into a fashionable pair of boots. He’d nicked a bottle of whiskey from the buttery earlier in the week and snatched it off the desk.

“Cheers to you, Cichol, for the miracle of foresight,” he muttered, pulling the cork. Peat fire scorched him from throat to stomach, but he didn’t wince and he didn’t stop. 

He swaggered down the hall with smoke on his tongue and paused to hammer at Ingrid’s door.

“Last chance, Lady Galatea,” he sang, knowing full well it was futile. “Your family may respect your seclusion, but your horse is lonely, and I’m done mucking out two stalls a day. Open up, or you leave me no choice.”

He sauntered away whistling. Ingrid would keep to herself until something forced her to reenter the world; it was time to give her a reason. Where to begin? The row of taverns on the east side of Fhirdiad were a twenty minute walk from the palace. By the time he slid onto a bar stool, he was sure he’d have enough to put a plan in motion.

The Chapel of Saint Cethleann stood over the gatehouse, but Dimitri turned down a narrow, cobwebbed hallway where an abandoned room once served as the private chapel for generations of long-dead Blaiddyds.

When the constant pressures of royal life overwhelmed him, Dimitri would rabbit away to his secret burrow behind the unassuming door. The quiet felt comfortable, like a warm blanket, and the icons of the Four Saints made good company. They didn’t mind that he was reserved and shy, instead of bold and brash like the princes in stories. 

Early on, he cached some books behind the dusty sandstone altar with the best intentions. Instead, he always wound up sprawled on his back across one of the worn stone benches in a most un-princely manner, swinging his legs and thinking his thoughts. After several months, mice made their homes in the tomes, and he’d leave small morsels of cheese and fruit beside the jagged holes in the spines. King Lambert surely knew where his son disappeared so often, but he never let on.

This time, he went straight to the narrow altar and sank against its rough side, letting his aching head drop to his knees. He was exhausted, but his body felt tighter than a drawn bowstring. Getting Glenn killed. Letting his father die alone. Coming apart in front of his uncle. Mistakes that cost lives, missteps he could never walk back. All hail the king of failure.

Above his head in a faded ceiling fresco, the goddess opened her arms to her faithful flock at the moment of the kingdom’s independence, nearly 500 years ago.

Being Faerghus-born meant belonging to the Church of Seiros. Commoners and nobles alike learned to walk, fight, pray and read in that order, though over centuries the faith became more cultural identity than fervent orthodoxy for many families, including his own. Dimitri believed in the goddess the same way he believed in the weather, which was to say he didn’t think deeply about either unless he was caught unprepared.

“I should be on my knees thanking you for my life or asking you to guide my family’s souls, but honestly, I doubt you care, and I certainly don’t feel like it,” he said, studying the goddess’s indifferent eyes. “My father was a good man who believed in justice and a better world, and you did nothing to stop his slaughter or anyone else’s that day. Tell me, where is my stepmother? Does she need to suffer more than death before you finish with her?” 

The mountain pass opened in his memory, and he gritted his teeth and pushed it away.

“And you left me here because...why, exactly? Did you just stop paying attention before you noticed I was still breathing?” He sighed and dropped his head back down into his arms, replaying the disastrous meeting with his uncle. “I am failing everyone in this world and the next, so please, tell me what I’m supposed to do now.”

 _You’re supposed to avenge us,_ Lambert grumbled. _Stop wasting time._

 _Who cares about Duscur? Their blood won’t satisfy us, their deaths don’t matter. You don’t matter. We are the only ones worth attending to, brat,_ Glenn said.

Even his sanctuary wasn’t safe anymore. 

“Leave me alone.” Dimitri closed his eyes tight and crushed down the voices. “Whether I live or die, what’s the point? I can’t fight an entire army by myself.” 

Glenn. The friend he loved, not the echoes in his ear. Glenn faced death knowing he would lose. Even clutched in its talons, he fought with tooth and claw, and it bought time for the rest of them, whether or not they survived. Maybe that was faith. Chivalry was meaningless, but perhaps fighting to save someone else’s life was still important. Regardless, Dimitri couldn’t live in any future where he stayed behind in Fhirdiad.

He could almost feel curious eyes on him, wanting to know his plans. They’d figure it out when he did.

In the west courtyard, squires toted equipment across the green and knights streamed towards the armory and stables. A poison fog of grief and rage hung in the air. A sniper — one of Glenn’s friends, Dimitri realized with a sinking stomach — trotted past, wheeling back when she saw the prince.

“Your Highness! Goddess be praised to see you up and about during our preparations! I swear on my life, every arrow I nock will be for Glenn and His Majesty. We’ll make Duscur rivers run red before we’re done.” She bowed hastily and jogged away before he could respond.

They were moving out tonight. Dimitri wondered what had changed before deciding the reason didn’t matter. He had to move fast.

He limped back to the infirmary and meekly submitted to the doctor’s scolding. Through clenched teeth, he thanked the bishops as they wore themselves thin with an intricate spell to expunge any hidden traces of dark magic from his veins. No need to tell them it felt like an ice pick scraping his bones. Pretend to enjoy the evening meal, feign disinterest in the commotion, try not to panic. Fhirdiad’s garrisons were trained for rapid deployments; they would move out hours before he could escape. 

The sound of hooves striking the stone walkways reminded him of Areadhbar’s final moments; he shoved that image from his mind and started thinking through his preparations. His heart pumped so loudly he worried the doctors would notice. 

_Must be nice having a heart that still beats_. 

“Goddess above, please shut up.” Oh good, now he was talking back to...whatever that was.

Two priests chatting in the hall fell silent. 

“Sorry, just having a bad headache!” Dimitri felt like an ass. He added a new item under the expanding list of personal developments he would keep to himself for the time being.

As soon as staff left for the night, Dimitri rifled through the medicine cabinet. At the back of the top shelf, he found a wooden box with several velvet bags nested inside; each protected a delicate elixir vial that practically hummed in his hands. He placed several back on the shelf, then searched for concoctions and antitoxins. 

Once he’d refilled the box with a small apothecary’s worth of stolen goods, he carefully set it on the chair and perched on the edge of the mattress with a single concoction, fiddling with the dainty stopper for awhile before giving in and snapping off the neck. He choked down the contents, feeling the concentrated white magic flood his system and bubble in his stomach. The worst of the nausea would pass within minutes. Each use supposedly built up tolerance for the side effects, but greater risks remained.

Every Faerghus child knew the horror stories. Mercs who abused recovery potions until their hearts burst. Soldiers who bled out from unfelt injuries when only a healer’s intervention could have saved them. Teens chasing venomous beasts on the heady rush of antitoxins, lost forever or found in parts and pieces.

Moderation was key. Use weaker concentrations first and save elixirs for desperate situations. Consume enough to sustain fast, focused travel, but let it wear off before redosing. It was not a good plan, but it was what he had to work with.

The next step was the hardest. 

The overnight guard slouched against the stone wall near the stair landing, one pockmarked cheek resting in a mailed hand, eyes at half mast. Instinctively, Dimitri thanked Seiros for his fortune. Lambert made it a point for him to be familiar with everyone in their service, and this was Wylf, only a few years older than Glenn, with a newborn girl at home. 

“Ah, good evening, Your Highness!” The knight’s black curls were flat from the helm he’d removed and set at his feet. Wylf straightened and bowed apologetically while Dimitri drew himself up to look as princely as possible.

“Good evening, Wylf. I am going to the chapel to pray for my father’s soul. I may be a while, if you would like to take a break?”

Wylf hesitated. “Shouldn’t you stay in bed, highness? Surely the goddess would understand you praying from here given the circumstances.”

“I have no doubt she would, but I would like to make an offering at the altar, and the night air may do me good.” 

“I’ll come with you then.”

“I appreciate your diligence, but I would prefer to be alone. And how are Allandra and your daughter?”

The swordsman’s face brightened. “They are well, thank you, sire. Our baby turned two weeks old yesterday, and she certainly has stronger lungs than Larkin did at that age. Keeps me up whenever I’m off shift, but I’m not complaining. Goddess willing, she’ll make it to her name day with no trouble, just like her big brother.”

“I am delighted to hear it. Allandra is recovering well?”

“Indeed, thanks to the bishop King Lambert sent, Goddess rest His Majesty’s soul.”

“Wonderful news. I am sure my father would be pleased, as well. Now go, Wylf. Children deserve all the time they can have with their parents, believe me.” 

Saints, he hadn’t meant to say that. 

Wylf looked downcast and shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat. “Well, Your Highness, if the Prince of Faerghus himself gives me an order, who am I to disobey?”

“Consider it an order, then.” Dimitri delivered a warm smile to conceal the guilt seizing his heart. “Go home, Wylf. I’ll be gone and back before dawn, with no one the wiser. Oh, if the door is closed when you return, please leave it. I feel like I may finally sleep well tonight.”

“I’ll pray it’s so. Thank you, highness.”

He waited until Wylf turned the corner at the bottom of the stairwell, then went back to grab the box and open the window enough that someone would notice in the morning. He snagged a bit of bandage on the ledge, hoping it looked convincing. Assuming Dimitri made it home again, he would set the story straight to spare Wylf from blame.

It didn’t seem likely.

Dimitri had spent years exploring hidden passages and disused stairwells with Felix; he knew several ways to reach his quarters without being noticed. He slipped inside and gently closed the door, grateful for a cloudless, moon-bright night that meant he could work without candles. The finely woven garments in his wardrobe made him wrinkle his nose. With their embroidered coats of arms in Blaiddyd blues, he’d literally be wearing his identity on his sleeve.

Wait. He dove under the bed, pleased to find the potion working. Sylvain’s old training clothes protruded between bed slats, hidden from nosy attendants who periodically insisted they’d seen the crown prince traipsing through town with the Fraldarius boy at his side. 

Working quickly, Dimitri stripped off his hospital linens and tore away the dressings around his torso. The wraps on his hands were hopelessly mangled again, so he shed them as well and kicked everything under the bed. He pulled on the black tights, skipping the gambeson until he’d done something about his rather distinctive hair.

Scissors were short-lived in his hands, so he rummaged through the desk drawers until he felt the solid bone handle of his sturdiest dagger. He slipped it from its sheath and turned to the half-length mirror on the wall.

The blade clattered to the floor.

After a moment, Dimitri raised a trembling hand and lightly pressed his palm to the glass. The prince on the other side did the same. Their chests heaved in unison, but bruises mottled the stranger’s haggard face. And the rest of him...

Two years earlier, Dimitri and Lambert rode to the remote seacoast northwest of Fhirdiad with Lord Volkhard and his niece, Edelgard. Dark clouds scudded overhead as the children tore across the cobbles, shrieking like gulls and hurling seaweed weapons. Dimitri tossed El in a tidepool; she wrapped her arms around his waist and slung him headlong into wet sand before collapsing with laughter at his side. They huddled together on their bellies with salt spray on their lips until El pulled Dimitri to his feet, her violet eyes flashing.

“Dance with me, Prince of Faerghus,” she commanded, and they waltzed among the shells and scattered driftwood.

That night, he lay awake remembering the beguiling sensation of El’s hands beneath his fingers. Did his skin feel as smooth to her? He imagined gently bringing his lips to the soft space between her thumb and forefinger, a daring move he certainly never practiced on himself. 

After El’s uncle took her away, Dimitri cursed his cowardice. Should their paths ever rejoin, he’d take her hands in his and lead her through the steps he’d still know by heart. He dreamed his touch would feel like coming home. 

Dreams died like everything else. The backs of his hands were scorched earth. 

Rodrigue’s words came back to him. _Steel your heart, Dimitri._ He lifted his palm from the mirror to wipe away tears streaking the stranger’s cheeks. He closed his eyes and gathered the remains of his fractured life. He left his dream behind the glass.

Retrieving the knife, he grabbed a long hank of hair in his fist and roughly sawed just above his scalp. It was quick, incautious work and he hissed when he nicked the tender skin above one ear. When he had finished, he ran a palm over the uneven stubble and yanked out a few remaining strands. Newly shorn, he felt too exposed; he needed to study how Sylvain hid behind his own face.

He assessed the mirror’s reflection. Would his own parents even recognize him? Would he forgot what they looked like? How long did he have before the memories of their deaths were the strongest ones left?

He turned away wearily and headed for his father’s private stable. It was time to go.

Shortly after the cathedral bell tolled the first hour of a new day, a nondescript rider on a common rouncey cantered through the city gates with a lance strapped to his back. His father would have had plenty to say about the hoof pick Dimitri took to the King’s second-favorite saddle — and to the now-torn saddle bag he’d stuffed with stolen food and medicine — but it needed to look like it wasn’t worth more than most horses.

Dimitri was not surprised that Rufus had taken his father’s destrier, Ely, a flashy black stallion who was a beast in battle but wholly unsuited for distance travel. He wished his uncle a long, jarring ride with several unplanned dismounts.

With a longing sigh, he decided against both of the dappled coursers and the chestnut palfrey — all too finely bred to avoid notice — and went to the fifth and final stall. A small, dark bay rouncey, plain in every regard, pinned her ears as Dimitri crept into the stall to tack up.

“I know, Ogma, you’d rather be sleeping right now, but we have a long road ahead of us.” He scratched the spot above her withers that usually convinced her not to bite him. 

His father never explained the mare’s origins, or why he made room for an all-purpose rouncey type in his stable, but Dimitri had come to appreciate the disgruntled mare. Ogma was deceptively fast, smooth-gaited, and capable of traveling for hours without rest. In seven years, she’d never worn shoes or come up lame. Between her solid hooves and slightly dished face, he suspected she had Almyran All-Bred and Imperial Sporthorse lines mixed in with the Blaiddyd Charger blood, but at a glance, she looked like an ordinary commoner’s horse. Anyone who saw her on the road would assume she was worth less than the saddle on her back. 

Ogma also had an attitude that rivaled Ely’s. She was the horse who taught Dimitri to fall, and he’d seen her throw several young knights who thought they could handle the undersized mare. She tolerated Dimitri’s late-night ministrations, but planted a cow kick on the meaty part of his thigh as he tightened her girth. He stifled a yelp and delivered a withering glare that she responded to with a disdainful snort.

As they crow-hopped away from Fhirdiad, Dimitri kept his leg on and estimated they were about two hours behind the Blaiddyd battalions. Soldiers conditioned for swift travel might reach Duscur in two days, compared to the envoy’s three. They would move west, skirting the northernmost parts of the Tailtean Plains, before eventually turning north. If he stuck to extended trots and brief canters, resting only when Ogma needed breaks, he could steadily close the gap and be on their heels by the mountain pass. 

In the moonlight, the road was a silver vein flowing away from Fhirdiad’s heart. He settled into his mount’s steady cadence and softened his gaze to take in the sweeping moors. Long rides forced him to focus on his horse, his body, and little else. For the first time since the ambush, Dimitri could breathe again. 

When they flushed a sleeping grouse and Ogma spooked, his laughter surprised them both; she flicked an ear back and skittered sideways. He sat tall and deep in the saddle, reassuring her in a low, calm voice. She steadied, and he grinned and shifted into a half seat, letting the reins slip through his fingers.

Ruins lay behind, and an inferno awaited, but for the moment he was a boy with a horse and an open road. They tore west like arrows speeding towards their target. Let people wonder where their prince had disappeared. Soon enough, they’d know the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from The Mountain Goats, [Autoclave](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mountaingoats/autoclave.html)
> 
> Trigger warnings: the first section includes allusions to dissociation and a pet-killing brother; OCD (specifically memories of compulsive behaviors to stave off bad things); brief alcohol abuse; and Sylvain’s generally self-destructive tendencies. Towards the end of the chapter Dimitri starts grappling with his physical scars, while throughout his sections the mental ones are periodically reminding him that they might need attention, too. Also there's mention of drug abuse in the paragraph that starts with "Every Faerghus child knew the horror stories".
> 
> Also I feel compelled to add that if you think this is a questionable plan on Dimitri's part, well, yes. But also, the boy deserves an epic horsegirl scene, so at least he gets one.
> 
> Whenever it posts, the retaliation at Duscur will likely be behind schedule (and I may still push it out one more chapter depending on the order of what happens back in Fhirdiad). Here's to the end of one fucked-up year, friends. May 2021 be...not 2020? that would be a good start.


	7. Difficult to Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I can't even snark for the next couple of chapters because toxic masculinity isn't funny and toxic masculinity combined with white supremacy and religious rhetoric is why we're in this shit. (Am I talking about Faerghus or my home country? Yes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief one this week, but I wanted to keep the attack on Duscur separate so you have the option of skipping it entirely; I'll post that chapter next and include copious warnings/notes when I do. General TWs this time for Dimitri thinking a lot about violent Faerghus culture and having a brief flashback to the ambush in ch. 1.
> 
> Massive thanks to [Antimonicacid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimonicacid/pseuds/Antimonicacid) for reading and providing feedback on Duscur world building and to [frackingforaffection](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frackingforaffection/pseuds/frackingforaffection) for her beta read, brainstorming support and brain cell-sharing.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind support, shares, kudos and comments. I'm hyperaware of the potential to fuck up Duscur's representation *again* in this fandom, so without spoilering I just want to note that there are things I allude to here which aren't going to be completely clear yet — Dedue gets to tell his own story, and I'm just along to type.

#### 1176, Garland Moon, eleventh day

One week after unknown assailants butchered the Blaiddyd envoy, Dedue Molinaro’s town stood silent. 

If anyone had asked in the months and years to come, Dedue would have described how the morning breeze sent flurries of cherry blossoms spiraling onto the streets and footpaths, so much like snow that his sister leaned out the kitchen window to catch one on her tongue. 

No one ever asked. In Faerghus, Dedue’s existence was profane. There were meant to be no survivors who remembered the sweet-smelling promise of a good harvest or the dappled sunlight dancing with the wind. The only Faerghan who cared also understood that some questions were too painful to answer. Eventually, Dedue let the morning slip away, along with the town name itself. In a landscape of loss, their absence was insignificant compared to his sister’s effervescent laughter and the sandstone texture of his father’s palms.

It had been his town’s turn to host the regional market, a monthly event for surrounding communities within a day’s ride. Over four days, far-flung friends and families reunited at shop stalls to trade goods and gossip. Each town council sent representatives to meet and vote on pressing public issues. The closing night featured a celebratory feast for that month’s honored deity, followed by dancing that lasted into the small hours. The market’s cancellation felt like an overreaction to Dedue, but then again, his father and the other council members had hardly slept since their first scouts returned with reports about the source of smoke rising from the mountain pass.

On his family’s last morning, Dedue was too irritated by his mother’s nervous pacing to memorize the constellations of tiny raised beauty marks at her temples, another memory the kingdom reduced to ashes.

“Mother, please, at least let me take Safiya to the shop so you can have some peace? I need to finish the nails for those Albinean whalers who stopped by last week.”

“I don’t need babysitting,” Safiya said, pelting her older brother with rye berries. After three days indoors, the ten-year-old was hanging upside down by her knees from one of the stout wooden ceiling rafters, face flushed and shining like burnished copper. Dedue had to admit, she was an excellent climber.

Rana stopped prowling the kitchen and leaned against the sink. 

“I’ve told you too many times already, Dedue. No one leaves this house until your father comes home. If the council votes to flee, I need you both here to pack.”

Dedue set down the knife he’d forged himself next to his half-chopped pile of scallions on the butcher block. He perched on a stool at the broad kitchen table, studying his mother through worried green eyes that she insisted were the precise color of wood ferns.

“Do you really think we’ll have to leave home? Where would we go?”

“Ooh! Could we go to Almyra? They have white wyverns! Let’s go there. You can use your ability to translate for us, Dedue.” Safiya landed another rye berry in her brother’s hair. He brushed it away and ignored her.

“I don’t know, my love.” Rana twisted a springy coil of silver hair that fanned elegantly around her temples. “It feels surreal, but you’ve heard the same things at the forge that I have. The kingdom hasn’t responded to any of our messages, and word from Fhirdiad is that their troops are on the move. Where else could they be heading but here?”

“But everyone knows we didn’t have anything to do with the attack...right?”

Rana folded her arms and sighed. She came around the table and bent to set sinewy hands on Dedue’s broad shoulders, resting her chin in the thatch of his sterling hair. 

“Faerghus is not Duscur. People there don’t like to see the truth when it looks different than what they expect.”

“That’s stupid,” Safiya said.

“You’re going to pass out if you don’t get your feet below your head soon.” Dedue tried to look mean and failed completely. She stuck out her tongue. He turned back to their mother.

“Is that why we don’t trade much with the kingdom?” 

Dedue was fourteen, old enough to be a proficient apprentice in his parents’ smithy, and he’d noticed that Faerghus received few mentions in their meticulous sale records. His friends all said the same of their family businesses. Everyone in Duscur traded with Sreng, Albinea, Brigid and Almyra, even Dagda and the Leicester Alliance from time to time. But while Faerghus had been on relatively friendly terms with Duscur for generations, the kingdom didn’t seem to be the kind of friend who was invited to many gatherings.

“We trade with people we trust,” his mother said.

“So we don’t trust Faerghans?”

She hesitated. “It’s easier to trust people you know. From the little time I’ve spent in Faerghus, most of them don’t seem very interested in the world beyond their borders. There are a lot of unspoken rules, and you can get into trouble without knowing why. It’s tiring.”

Safiya pulled herself up onto the rafter and skittered down the support beam with an effortless grace.

“Hey, Squirrel,” Dedue said, catching the edge of her sleeve as she raced past the table with the ends of her braids bouncing. “Would you help me cook lunch?”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine, but only because you burn everything without me.”

“You’re right, I do.” He winked up at their mother, who silently mouthed her thanks.

His father came home within the hour, entering the front door as Dedue held the mortar while Safiya doggedly worked the pestle over black peppercorns. 

“Both of my children working quietly together? What rare stars aligned to make this happen?” Teo’s sonorous laugh couldn’t mask the strain in his tiger-stone eyes. 

“I’m making sure Dedue doesn’t ruin lunch,” Safiya said, puffing up her chest as she bounded over to hug her father’s ribs. Dedue snatched the abandoned pestle before it tipped onto the floor.

“That’s very kind of you.” Teo gave her an affectionate squeeze.

Dedue smirked. “I can’t ruin lunch until you finish grinding the pepper, Squirrel. Come back here and help me.” 

Rana cleared her throat. “What news from the council?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid.” Teo paused and patted his daughter’s shoulder. “Safiya, would you run upstairs and see if you can find my reading glasses?”

Teo pinched the bridge of his broad nose, where a spray of small purple burn scars told the story of a near-miss from his apprentice days. His father was a mountain of a man, an artisan of iron and steel, but he looked ready to drop. 

“How bad is it?” Rana waited until Safiya was out of earshot. 

“Bad. Our spies confirmed that only the Faerghus prince survived. The council chair dispatched five more scouts to the mountains last night, and the other border towns did the same. They’ll send doves at the first signs of an incursion."

“We have to go, Teo.” Rana’s eyes flashed beneath drawn brows. “Better the town burns than our people.”

“I know, my linnet. I came home to help you pack — the council voted to leave for the coast at once. We have a few hours before the convoy departs. There are ships waiting to sail north across the channel, and we sent falcons ahead asking for safe harbor until we negotiate a temporary settlement elsewhere.” Teo looked stricken. “We’ll have to leave the forge and most of what’s here...but we can start again.”

Anxiety scrabbled at Dedue's chest. They would lose so much. Their school and library, their smithies and sacred temples, the oak groves where innumerable generations of ancestors rested. The ancient spruce forests that soared like cathedral spires. The colorful shawl of late-spring flowers that draped Duscur’s sprawling hills.

“But we’ve been here since before there was a Faerghus,” he protested. “Before there was a Fódlan, even. I thought some of our magic was linked to the land. How can we leave it behind?”

Rana wrapped her son in powerful arms toughened by decades of forgework. She was still taller than Dedue, though he’d been gaining almost by the day in recent months.

“I don’t know, Dedue,” she said softly. “But the land will wait for us. Someday, our people will come home again. Until then, we’ll do the best we can together.”

“Mother? Father?” Safiya’s voice echoed down from the stairwell. “There are council doves flying north.”

Dedue and his parents fell silent and still. Teo opened the door and stepped outside, looking overhead where Dedue heard the stick-snaps of wings. His father returned, ashen-faced.

“It’s the full flock, or what’s left of it. Rana, we need to saddle the horses _now_. Dedue, get your sister. Grab your coats and take my axe from the back porch. I’m going to check on the Montoyas to be sure they heard the birds. We meet at the stables in ten minutes.”

Rana was already in motion, pulling their emergency savings out from a tin on the counter and stuffing it in a small saddle bag. 

“What about our chickens?” Dedue asked, thinking of the gentle Dorking hens scratching idly in the back garden. Safiya had named each one. She had favorites, plump dignified birds past their egg-laying days who hustled to greet her each morning when she unlatched the henhouse door.

Teo’s moist eyes flitted around the house he’d grown up in, the one he’d expanded after the forge grew in renown. He lingered on his family — Rana grabbing essentials, Dedue standing uncertainly by the door, Safiya hovering on the stairs, pretending not to listen. 

“We have to leave them, son. We have to leave everything.” His voice rasped like a metal file. “There are lions at our door.”

Dimitri reached the mountains stress-sick and cloaked in exhaustion. Bandits weren’t scary, but sleep couldn’t be trusted. At rest, he floated in a sea of grief and guilt, chasing absolution he didn’t deserve. 

Every few hours, he dismounted and prowled a tight perimeter while Ogma waged war against timothy and clover. They drank from icy creeks where Dimitri listened for trouble before plunging his arms into glacial water with a stifled gasp. Numb below the elbows, he could remount without resorting to white magic for the levin pulsing through his nerves.

The further he traveled, the more the road’s conditions indicated that nearby lords had sent retainers to join the royal forces; ironshod hooves had cratered the path and trampled neighboring fields, leaving ruined farmland in their wake. Despairing peasants crouched over their ravaged fields. House Blaiddyd’s indifference had just condemned their families to a hungry winter. 

The speed of travel limited Rufus to cavalry and fliers, but that still added up to a few hundred militant knights hellbent on revenge, every one of them forged into war dogs.

Faerghus children trained to fight before they understood why. They learned soon enough. Knights weren’t prized for their chivalry, Crestborn children weren’t loved for their personalities, and adults weren’t displeased when six-year-old Dimitri accidentally broke a nine year old’s arm during a spar. Dimitri was horrified — hysterical, really — but even his own father seemed proud of his son’s innate ability to hurt people. It split Dimitri in two.

He was the boy who kissed friends’ scraped elbows and the boy who shattered opponents’ bones. He cried over the dead and he cut through the living. He was a gentle summer breeze and the jagged lash of an ice storm. He was desperate to know if Lambert and Glenn ever feared they were bad people, and he was too afraid to ask. Now darkness rode with him to Duscur. Maybe that was all he’d ever contained. 

At the mouth of the pass, jagged peaks closed around them like talons. Ogma was dull-eyed and stumbling, but she began to jig, head-tossing and spooking at shadows. Dimitri knew he was to blame: he’d braced his legs, and his rigid grip transmitted anxiety down the reins. He didn’t understand why until he crested a rise that sloped away and opened into a narrow valley.

His heart kicked at his ribs. 

“Oh, Ogma, I did not think this through.” 

Vultures rode thermals high above swirling black clouds of rooks and jackdaws chanting death psalms. Dimitri couldn’t see the valley floor, but he could smell it. Under the stench, acrid smoke still lingered.

Panic unfurled in his chest and crushed his lungs. He was back in the caravan while riders tore through the sky, striking down his friends and killing children as they fled. Surrounded by flames, Dimitri burned and choked on ashes while he watched in horror from Areadbhar’s back. 

Ogma whinnied sharply and half-reared before surging forward, trying to bolt. Dimitri popped partway out of the saddle and jolted back to himself. He’d dug his heels into her sides and checked her harshly on the bit; she was a saint for not throwing him headfirst onto the jagged rocks. 

“I’m sorry, girl,” he said, trying to control the shaking in his voice. He released his legs and loosed the reins, stroking her neck as she pawed furrows in the path. “Let’s get through the steepest part, and then we’ll do it your way.”

They skittered and slid until the path evened into a more gradual descent. Dimitri filled his lungs, held his breath, and gave Ogma her head. 

The little mare barreled into the valley, finding her own path through the wreckage. They galloped past a blur of bones and bodies, scattering carrion crows in their wake. Dimitri tried not to register the sounds when she was forced to run straight over remains. When he misread the distance to a jump, Ogma saved them with a desperate leap that cleared the charred shell of a carriage. A red fox sprinted in front of Ogma’s hooves carrying something limp and grey between its jaws. Dimitri fixed his eyes between her ears, locked on safe harbor at the valley’s end. 

They exploded out the other side, Dimitri’s lungs bursting as he sucked in air that didn’t smell only of his family’s end. He brought them down to a trot as soon as they were through, then slowed to a walk with reins on the buckle so he could collapse forward and wrap his arms around her neck. He buried his face in her mane, where the thick fur underneath would soak up the tears streaming down his face. Ogma heaved and foamed but merely flicked an annoyed ear until he clawed back his composure. 

“Thank you,” he whispered against her neck. 

Minutes later, Duscur came into view. His family had been so close to safety. Dimitri strained his eyes and spotted faint plumes of dust rising in the late afternoon sun. 

He looked down at his hard-ridden horse. The final push could kill her, but he’d made his choice already: he was the lance in a dying man’s chest, the fist staving in a woman’s skull. 

He reached behind him and pulled another bottle of elixir from his saddle bag to gulp the contents. Ogma picked up a tired canter when he asked, and they lumbered down the road towards the Blaiddyd banners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from The Mountain Goats, [Up the Wolves](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mountaingoats/upthewolves.html)


	8. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warning bell sounded in his head, but Dimitri didn’t hesitate, driving Ely between the other boy and the Blaiddyd troops, pushing the stallion into a flying capriole that struck one of their mounts. He made a desperate reach for his reason to live.
> 
> “Take my hand,” Dimitri screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: This chapter covers the Faerghus Kingdom's genocide campaign so there's war violence and terror. Impact matters more than intention when it comes to writing about violence against Black and brown bodies; my hope is that while we don't t look away from what the kingdom actually did pre-canon, this also does not sensationalize the violence against Duscuri people. That said, there is a character death, some horse deaths, an allusion to a possible sexual assault and the destruction that happens when a skilled military attacks an unarmed community. Dimitri kills quite a few folks, too, but in this case they definitely had it coming. I've had a few people review the chapter but ***please* see end notes for detailed triggers, and know that if you'd like to skip this, it's ok. I'll include a quick synopsis at the very end of the end note so you won't miss key plot points.**

Dedue ran through a nightmare carrying his sister.

Safiya had begged to take her eldest hens, or at least open the back gate for them to flee, but Teo’s desperate eyes were seared in Dedue’s mind. He snatched up the chopping axe and herded Safiya from the house while she wept.

Their town nestled against the foothills, a brief ride north from the mountain pass. At the front gate, Dedue glanced up the cobbled street towards the peaks and cracked the wood slats under his grip. Waves of soldiers rushed down the slopes, weapons glinting in the light. Dark mages summoned war magic, illegal in Duscur, and sent the elements screaming through the sky above spiked lines of lances.

“Run, Safiya!” He pulled his sister halfway off her feet as they sprinted from the onslaught.

The first homes on the edge of town exploded.

Meteor blasts rocked the streets, leaving people stunned and staggering. Dedue and Safiya fell, rose, and fell again. Safiya’s screams tore open Dedue’s heart. He wondered if his joints would sunder from the constant concussive pounding. Torrents of lightning splintered trees and shattered roof tiles, turning them into vicious projectiles; Duscuri families fled burning homes only to die on their front walks.

Bodies and buildings crumbled beneath a deluge of arrows and killing spells. Ice boulders ripped through stonework like wet paper, flattening entire blocks. Forge upon forge erupted into flames.

Magicians decimated their community in minutes and left the cleanup to mounted units. Monstrous airborne shadows stalked the few survivors, herding them towards House Blaiddyd’s apocalyptic hordes. Dedue watched an impassive wyvern rider toy with a stumbling couple. When the game grew dull, she let her dragon do the rest.

Behind them, cavalry swamped the streets. Safiya stood petrified, transfixed as the wyvern stomped and snorted. Dedue hoisted her onto his hip, where she slung her arms around his neck.

“Close your eyes. Don’t look! We’ll be safe soon, Squirrel.” He hated lying to her.

Mortally wounded friends lay twisted in the rubble, crying for gods and mothers. Dedue sobbed and dodged their reaching hands. He skidded around a mound of smoldering debris to find the stable in flames.

Screams of trapped horses like banshees. Screams he’d hear in the howling winds of nightmares.

Dedue prayed to a multitude of gods in a single breath, but Rana and Teo did not arrive to save their children. Putrid smoke drifted in noxious clouds the color of rotten wheat; Dedue’s throat blistered, Safiya choked and gagged. Eyes streaming, he concentrated on taking one step and then another, carrying her through perdition.

A barrage of hoofbeats. Dedue ducked and spun at the last moment, whipping his father’s axe in his free hand. Meat parted under the blade, blood spattered his face. Horse and rider fell screaming in the street. Dedue tightened his hold on Safiya and turned north, where dense forests beyond town might discourage the Faerghus mob.

Maybe his parents waited in the pines. Maybe the tangled oak coppices would shield them until night came, when they could flee to the coast, to sanctuary. Maybe he could protect Safiya after all.

The arrow went straight through his shoulder.

Dedue stumbled under the blow, dropping to one knee. It took a moment to understand the numb pressure crushing his sternum. Dazed, he probed the barbed steel jutting through his torn shirt.

Safiya went limp.

If anyone had asked in the months and years to come, Dedue would have omitted the moment when his world fell silent.

No one ever asked. In Faerghus, his sister’s death was cause for celebration. The only Faerghan who cared also understood that some questions were too painful to answer. That one had his own unspeakable memories, and they were about to overlap.

Dedue gently brought Safiya into an embrace, careful not to scratch her skin against the arrow point protruding from his chest. He smoothed her dirty braids behind her still shoulders. A field of ragged red poppies bloomed on her tattered smock.

He looked up at the charred landscape, where laughing beasts chased screaming women. Six smelled blood and trotted their mounts to where he crouched. Barking insults, they circled and brandished death-forged blades.

They would drag out the kill, Dedue understood. He tenderly laid Safiya’s body at his feet and rose with the axe clenched in tight fists, ignoring the searing pain that radiated up his arm. Years of forgework at his father’s side left Dedue with a balanced grip and fluid, unyielding strokes that bent iron beneath his blows. The jackals bared their teeth. 

Teo’s son was no fighter, but he would thin the pack before it tore him to pieces. Emboldened, the first dog charged. Dedue steadied his hands and started swinging.

  
  


At the back of the military forces, with Ogma nearly lame, Dimitri found the help he needed.

Rufus might be regent, but King Lambert had spent a surprising amount of time building personal connections between House Blaiddyd and its soldiers. Dimitri grew up training with squires and newly initiated knights, being tutored by paladins whose injuries or age relegated them to the rear guard. Whether fate or fortune took credit, Dimitri felt a swell of relief upon seeing familiar faces in the back of the company. It was a desperate gamble hinging on the possibility that some among them shared his own reservations about the retaliation. If not...

Eyes flashed and weapons gleamed as he approached a straggling group of about ten. Dimitri realized that he’d never announced himself before and had no idea how to proceed. He hoped his voice still sounded like his own.

“Hold your arms, in the name of my father, King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd!”

A few of the younger riders blanched.

“Your Highness,” one exclaimed, dropping her head in recognition. Her mates halted and gaped.

“Lady Catlyn? Sothis, it’s good to see you,” Dimitri gasped. 

A daughter of House Gideon, Cat became a bow knight under Glenn’s mentorship; she had briefly instructed Dimitri until they mutually concluded that no string could withstand his draw.

“Crown Prince Blaiddyd?” This from Marius Gavreaux, a Conand squire whose irreverent tongue and commoner status hampered his rise to knighthood. “What — why — have you come to join the suppression?”

Fighting wasn’t the only skill royal heirs needed to master. Dimitri summoned every last ounce of regal bearing he carried and offered a silent plea to the ether. 

“Good Sirs and Ladies,” he called, wincing when his voice cracked, “I know many of you grieve for friends and loved ones who lost their lives alongside my family. Please hear me now: while I am not yet the king, I came because my father would not have wished to see a people killed in response to his death, or even to my own.” Dimitri nodded towards the convoy’s vanguard, gut churning as he heard riders pick up speed. 

They were listening — guarded, but listening. Every word counted. One misstep, and he would be dragged before his uncle and rightly accused of insurrection. He had to risk it.

“King Lambert was devoted to reforms that could lead to lasting peace for Faerghus, and this treaty was to be part of his legacy. I cannot and would not ask you to disobey Regent Blaiddyd’s orders, but” — his stomach flipped in fear — “as my father’s heir and the sole survivor of the attack, it is my sacred duty to protect the innocent while I draw breath. And I mean to try. If anyone would loan me a fresh horse, you would be in my debt.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but you’re still a boy,” a grey-haired knight said, unable to meet Dimitri’s eyes. “The regent’s decisions were informed by the remaining advisors of King Lambert, may the goddess rest his soul. They know what’s best.” 

“Wait, you don’t mean to charge in alone?” Marius looked bewildered. “Begging your pardon, highness, but I thought you were a brigand with a death wish before Catlyn recognized you. The knights on the front are chafing to fight. If you interfere, you won’t last long.”

“Aye,” the older knight continued, “and if you fall to harm, what becomes of the kingdom? This is a rash plan...Forgive me, Prince Blaiddyd, I speak too freely.” 

He was losing them. Up ahead now, fires flickered between the trees. Dimitri grinned with confidence he didn’t feel and forced the words from his tongue. 

“I am honored by your concern. And you are right, I am young — but I have my father’s Crest, and I regret to report that I am as stubborn a, um, bastard as he was reputed to be.” 

“Well, there’s Glenn’s legacy for us,” Catlyn laughed. She studied him pensively, making her decision. “You’re lucky I fell behind when this nag pulled a shoe. I cannot disobey orders, Your Highness, but surely our regent would want House Blaiddyd’s rightful heir to be protected on his fool’s errand? If he was with us, King Lambert would have me banished for watching you ride off without attendants. I won’t fight fellow soldiers, but maybe I can keep you from getting yourself killed, if you’ll forgive my impudence.”

One or two others muttered their assent, and the rest at least seemed hesitant to interfere. Dimitri’s cheeks burned, words caught in his throat. He paused to collect himself and tried again.

“Thank you, friends. Goddess knows, I would be grateful for any who would ride with me, though you may want to conceal your faces for your sakes. The rest of you have my word: I will hold nothing against anyone who stays.”

“Valeria,” Marius called to one of the ostlers. “Lend us that great cracking war horse of our former King, the one his brother couldn’t manage.” He winked at Dimitri. “That’ll mark you as one of ours, but I’ll swear on my mother’s grave you stole him if anyone asks.”

Dimitri slid off Ogma and handed the reins to the woman who led Ely towards them. Lambert’s destrier blew a hot gust of air in Dimitri’s face, ears pricked towards the sounds of battle. He mounted up and turned the black stallion towards the fight, vowing to remember the kindness of ordinary soldiers when it became his turn to give the orders.

Minutes later, he galloped into town with Catlyn and two others on his flanks. Dimitri knew the sounds now, the killing blows and death screams, but his hands still shook on the reins. Panic fluttered in his chest as they tore through debris. He needed to stay away from the flames. Catlyn spat and cursed Sothis when the full scope of destruction came into view. 

Far away, he recognized a minor lord — Kleiman, he thought — astride a blood-bay charger. The cur desecrated the dead, trampling over bodies to hurl a torch through a temple window. An elderly priest fled the burning interior; Kleiman cut her down laughing. His uncle’s promise of reward certainly drew out the kingdom’s rats. Dimitri narrowed his eyes and readied his lance, focusing on its balance, its comforting familiarity, its terrible purpose.

_You won’t avenge us here, fool._

As if that was a reason to turn away when entire families lay dead in the Blaiddyd name. Dimitri crushed his surging anxiety and anguish into a ball of white-hot rage and let it consume him.

A dark flier cast Hades on a knot of people waving white rags. Dimitri shouted and flew towards the group, but the magic had hit with deadly effect. He brought Ely into a levade, barbed front hooves striking the air as the stallion reared. At the height of the maneuver, he hurled the lance through the mage’s face. She dropped like a stone from the pegasus. Dimitri drove forward and tore his lance free, turning in a frenzy to the trio who’d followed him into the chaos.

“Save anyone you can,” he shouted and sent Ely tearing away before they could object.

Across the ruins of a town square, Dimitri spotted knights clustered around someone who reminded him of his stepmother. A red haze dropped over his vision. He surrendered to it, welcomed the storm that swept through him and drove the lance into the nearest man’s throat. Roaring, Dimitri grabbed the next by the back of his breastplate collar and slammed the flailing knight into the nearest wall.

“Stay with her,” he shouted at Catlyn, who’d caught up and was already leaping down to check the woman’s pulse. He feared they’d arrived too late.

Sothis be damned, there had to be someone left alive.

Faerghus had obliterated the town with ruthless efficiency. Ely struggled for traction on the red-slicked cobbles as Dimitri chased signs of life, avoiding fires and dodging magic that hammered pointlessly into the wreckage. 

On the north edge of town, he saw his chance.

The teen looked about Dimitri’s age, staggering hacked and bloodied before Faerghus knights. Six paladins for one boy wielding a woodcutter’s axe. Two remained mounted, charging with spears that pushed the boy towards the others’ swords. The group jeered and closed in when the youth went to his knees.

A warning bell sounded in his head, but Dimitri didn’t hesitate, driving Ely between the other boy and the Blaiddyd troops, pushing the stallion into a flying capriole that struck one of their mounts. He made a desperate reach for his reason to live.

“Take my hand,” Dimitri screamed.

Dedue was dying. The riders were bored, drunk, and dallying with him, driving him back for the swordsmen to open a new wound or two, over and over again. He’d swung the axe so often that his bones trembled. When he fell, he knew he would not rise. They were far from Safiya now. He wished he could hold her hand.

A Faerghan boy crashed into Dedue’s tormentors without warning, driving his coal-black horse into an airborne leap that toppled one of their mounts. The horse had barely landed, sparks flying from its shoes, when the spindly teen bared his teeth and speared two men clean off their feet. In a single fluid movement, he reined back with one hand and twisted the weapon clear with the other, thrusting the handle behind him to shatter a soldier’s cheek.

“Take my hand!” 

Dedue wavered before the terrible beauty of beast and boy whose violent blue eyes were wild under red smears streaking his face. But this Faerghan leaned down and extended a blood-covered glove to _him_ , was killing for _him_. It was frightening and illogical and yet — Dedue swallowed his mistrust and reached back, worried he’d pull the slighter youth from the saddle. When they locked around each others’ forearms, the boy lifted Dedue easily, as if hoisting a small child.

The commotion had drawn attention. More cavalry arrived and dismounted, rushing the boys en masse to hack down the horse. The Faerghan growled and leaped from the saddle, taking Dedue along in a diving roll that threw them clear of his dying mount. He moved gracelessly, like he was only half-grown, and yet he was agile enough to push Dedue behind him and leap to his feet with the lance spinning.

“Here,” the boy shouted. He threw something in a small bag over his shoulder to Dedue. “Drink it, quick! It will close the worst of your wounds.” 

Before Dedue could respond, the boy was already away, advancing at the oncoming forces. The Faerghan blocked a killing blow from a steel battle axe that cracked his lance in two, and still he fought, reckless and seemingly unstoppable, striking and stabbing with both the lance head and the splintered handle.

Dedue wanted to help, but he couldn’t even stand. He whispered a silent prayer to the goddess of wisdom and choked down the foul-tasting liquid, shuddering when it sizzled through his body. For the space of a heartbeat, a tendril of hope unfurled before he finally sank into unconsciousness.

Dimitri’s Crest fired over his shoulder as he battered at their assailants. When the shattered lance handle lodged in a man’s chest, he switched the blade to his dominant hand and used his other fist like a mace, gouging armor and crushing bone. He could still see the elders and mothers and babes-in-arms they’d butchered. He pulled them close and took them apart.

He shrugged off the first blows that struck him, but more followed. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed more knights racing to finish off the Duscuri youth. 

Dimitri sprinted in and threw himself on top of the unconscious boy, screaming as the swords split his back. Blood streamed down his sides, but he stayed braced over the teen’s exposed body while his Crest flared like a meteor. A massive blow shattered his shoulder blade and finally knocked him flat. He coughed and felt bones grate.

Part of him wanted to pray, but he fought the urge to give their goddess the satisfaction. Gradually, the deafening atmosphere faded into silence. Dimitri clenched his bloodied fists and waited for the world to snuff out. 

When it didn’t, he arduously lifted his head and saw a gathering crowd. Wide-eyed knights murmured to each other. Catlyn was among them, carefully approaching select individuals to whisper in their ears; Dimitri made sure not to look at her. 

“I didn’t know, I didn’t know.” One of the women who struck him was huddled on the ruined earth, frantic and chanting at no one.

Dimitri used his good arm to drag himself into what charitably might be considered a sitting position. He forced words from a throat of broken glass.

“I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of Faerghus.” 

Several onlookers scoffed, but enough were visibly shaken that he pressed ahead. 

“If Regent Rufus is nearby, please send for him.”

Heavy hooves clopped through the throng. If Dimitri weren’t focused on staying conscious, he would have enjoyed the sight of his uncle relegated to a common cart horse. Rufus momentarily lost his composure, eyes boggled and jaw dropped, before he adopted a façade more becoming a new, untested royal.

“Prince Blaiddyd, what in the name of the goddess are you doing here?”

By then, anyone who hadn’t continued on to annihilate other towns lingered within earshot. Dimitri weakly signaled Rufus to come closer. His uncle dismounted and irritatedly waved away the squires who came to assist him. He picked his way through the gore and stood a few feet from his nephew.

“Well?” he hissed.

Dimitri was beginning to feel the full extent of his wounds, and he knew damn well that Rufus would happily let him bleed out after his performance. He kept his voice low enough that no one else would hear.

“Your knights are watching, my lord,” Dimitri said evenly. “They saw my Crest activate. A good number of them will have recognized my father’s horse. I assure you, your troops know who I am. If you let me die — here, or when we return — you’ll be the shortest-serving Blaiddyd in our family’s history.”

Rufus seethed. Dimitri maintained his composure while black spots speckled his vision. It was interesting to discover that he didn’t care how royally wrecked his future in Fhirdiad would be if he survived, as long as he kept the other boy safe.

“Bring me a bishop,” Rufus ground out through clenched teeth.

“And please, bring a second one for my companion,” Dimitri raised his voice as much as he could.

A discontented murmur rippled through the crowd. Rufus looked ready to strike him across the face.

Wise rulers kept some things between family. Dimitri shifted back to a softer tone. “He stays with me, Uncle.” His words were starting to shake; he clasped the Duscuri youth’s limp hand in his own weakening grip. “Heal him, too, and you have my word: I’ll obey whatever you command for the good of the kingdom. If I recover, and he is not alive and well beside me…” He held his uncle’s gaze.

“We aren’t finished here,” Rufus whispered.

“I know.” Dimitri collapsed back against his friend, still keeping their fingers entwined. A trickle of blood dripped from his lips. “But I think I’m done for today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: medieval kings and regents did ride into battle; 12th-century war horses in Europe did not actually wear much armor, if any; and the history of warfare shows that, often, there are soldiers with serious qualms about annihilating civilian populations. It's the men in power who find it easy to kill, since they never have to do it themselves.
> 
> Author subjectivity note: Crests are not real, so yes, in my version people can see them when they activate. It's very intimidating.
> 
>  **Detailed trigger warnings**  
>  The first section is about Dedue and Safiya trying to escape the attack, which includes the equivalent of bomb blasts (magic) and civilian deaths (not detailed violence, but people do die in the text). The lines that come right after "He hated lying to her," which begin with "Mortally wounded," and extends through "Dedue prayed to a multitude of gods" could be particularly upsetting and involve both human and horse deaths.
> 
> It is implied that Dedue's sister, Safiya, dies when archers fire at the siblings as they flee. If you'd like to avoid this part, skip from "Dedue stumbled under the blow" to "death-forged blades."
> 
> Anytime Dimitri's in Duscur/in among the attack, you can safely assume he kills people. It's very similar in the level of detail to the first chapter, so what I would describe as graphic but not gory.
> 
> When Dimitri's actually riding through Duscur, he sees what may be soldiers assaulting a woman. Skip the paragraph that begins with "Across the ruins of a town square," and know that he kills the shit out of them all and has my full approval in doing so.
> 
> From "Dedue was dying" (final Dedue POV section) until "Part of him wanted to pray" (final Dimitri POV section), there are graphic descriptions of soldiers attacking the two of them and Dimitri fighting back. You know how that tends to go for the soldiers. A horse also dies. 
> 
> **Chapter summary**  
>  The Faerghus military levels the city. Dedue tries to escape with his sister, but he's wounded and she dies. He resolves to take out at least a few of their attackers before he dies. Meanwhile Dimitri's caught up with the back of the troops and manages to find a few (very few) soldiers who know him and who don't want to disobey orders but also don't want to let their crown prince ride off and get himself killed. They agree to ride with him protective-ly, which works until he goes off on his own and starts taking out soldiers who are slaughtering civilians. Eventually he sees Dedue fighting a number of soldiers and dives into the fray. Dedue isn't sure how to feel about this (let's be honest) really alarming child soldier, but he doesn't have better options. They quickly get surrounded, and Dimitri goes down protecting his now-unconscious soon-to-be friend. The soldiers figure out pretty fast that Dimitri is who he is. Dimitri negotiates with his uncle to keep Dedue alive because he's smart as fuck and also have you met teenagers? They know exactly how to twist the knife.


	9. Woke up Hurting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He returned to his own room and assessed himself in the mirror. Blood spotting his collar, bruise marring his cheek, mauve lipstick streaking his jaw. Every mark a story, none worth telling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, 600+ reads? WHAAA. Thank you each for the life-giving comments, subscriptions, kudos and clicks. Seriously, I cannot overstate the positive effects of your time and feedback.
> 
> A massive thanks to my partner in crime, [frackingforaffection](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frackingforaffection), who has helped me spin manky wool into proper yarn on several occasions.
> 
> TWs for general Sylvain self-loathing, over-drinking and misogyny. Also, language, Mr. Gautier. Get your shit together.

The girl in his arms was exquisite. In the moonlight, Sylvain painted landscapes with his touch, a chiaroscuro of curves and contours. He teased his tongue along the smooth canvas of her throat until his lips brushed the rise of her breast and...

“Hey, kid, wake up, it’s time to go.”

Firm hands shook his shoulders. With a regretful pout, the girl faded behind piercing sunlight. Sylvain squinted up at the platinum-eyed brewer who’d roused him and flashed her a tired, winsome smile.

“Good morning.”

She glared and dropped a wet rag on his face.

“Maybe for you. The rest of us worked all night. Don’t be so fussy, that’s a clean cloth.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d recommend using it.”

Sylvain grimaced as he peeled his cheek off the table with an unpleasant squelch. He scrubbed at the sticky residue, blearily piecing together fragments from the previous night.

The first tavern had been sentimental; Glenn introduced Sylvain to its cosy interior last year, the night before he returned home.

“What? This has nothing to do with showing you an actual good time before you go back to that shit family of yours. I wanted a drink, and you’re buying.” Glenn jabbed a finger at him from across their corner booth. “Don’t think this means we’re friends.”

This time, he’d barely sipped his wine before the music started, and what was he supposed to do? He was a disaffected noble; his raison d'être practically demanded that he flirt too well, dance too close and enjoy one cup too many. Once he’d drawn a sufficient number of reproving glances, Sylvain wandered to a second, seedier establishment where the alewife over-served anyone who slipped her a gold coin.

He’d finished in a third locale, a cramped room crowded with mismatched tables and benches. Sylvain took it for one of the quasi-legal home breweries that set out temporary signs hawking fresh batches of cheap ale to passersby, which made the dour woman at the washbasin both owner and operator.

“Next time you wander in reeking of drink twenty minutes before I close, you’d best plan to sleep it off in the alley,” she warned.

“Sorry. This isn’t usually how my nights end.” He chuckled ruefully and picked flakes of pastry crust out of his hair, deciding he didn’t want to know.

“Maybe not, but it will be if you don’t sort yourself out. I’ve spent most of my life serving ale to washed-up men. I doubt any dreamed of being lonely drunks when they were young, either.”

“Isn’t it a little soon for lectures?” Sylvain folded the rag into a neat square and wiped off the area around him, then flipped it to methodically swipe down the length of the tabletop. He ducked to gather a crumpled cloth napkin and the forlorn remains of what might have been a pot pie.

She folded her muscled arms and scowled under ruddy cheeks.

“All right, you’re not the subtle type. I can appreciate that.” Sylvain slid the rag back towards her and rested an elbow on the table. He propped his chin on his fist, batting his reputedly irresistible eyelashes. “Let me buy you breakfast to make up for the inconvenience. I’d be lucky to share a meal with a woman who knows how to manage difficult men. Maybe you could save me from becoming one.”

The woman’s crows-feet crinkled. She snorted and turned to clean the barrel tap as her shoulders shook.

“Sothis help me, I should turn you out on your arse, but that’s the kind of terrible line that worked on me when I was your age. More than once, if I’m honest.”

“So then it couldn’t be that terrible,” Sylvain protested.

“Oh yes it could. Even still, proper scoundrels don’t clean up after themselves in the morning.”

It was far too early in Sylvain’s day to have a complete stranger take the measure of him so easily.

“Thanks for the laugh. Go home, kid. Someone’s missing you.”

It was a sweet lie. Sylvain waited until she turned back to the keg before he piled several gold coins on the table and slipped out the door, where the bright day split open his head. Sunlight was violence.

He studied the surrounding buildings; apparently, he’d ventured to the eastern edge of Fhirdiad. Saints, it was hard work ruining himself in the eyes of all good and decent people. Famished and out of money, he embarked on the long walk home, shuffling through jumbled memories.

There was a girl with an unfortunate interest in his Crest and cherry wine on her tongue. He’d enjoyed the taste for awhile, then deposited her in a booth towards the back of the tavern while he “fetched another round.” After he made his escape, there’d been a second girl with a laugh like cracking ice: sharp, sudden, perilous. She’d ducked his kiss and merrily tweaked his collar, slipping a scrap of paper into his coat pocket. He actually might have liked her. Efa. No, Eila? Eira? Sylvain hoped she’d written her name as well as how to find her.

A chill skittered up his arms. When they were little, he and Felix sparred with foot-long icicles in winter’s heart; it wasn’t like him to feel cold on a brisk Fhirdiad morning. He reached to button his collar. _Shit._ Sylvain paused, trying to remember when and where he’d abandoned his good coat.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Startled, Sylvain stumbled back against a row of barrels outside a fishmonger’s, feeling his ankle wrench as he twisted to avoid the splash of oily water.

Felix stood before him, just out of reach. He carried a good sword and had a pair of daggers strapped to his lithe chest, heavy armaments for a morning walk in the city. A storm of emotions roared up and broke across his face, too fast for Sylvain to follow.

“Felix? What are you doing here?”

“Answer me first.”

Sylvain read disappointment in the taut lines of his arms, the slight purse of his lips.

“I went out?” Sylvain shrugged, gesturing at the morning light. “Looks like I lost track of time.”

“You lost track of time,” Felix repeated, closing his eyes. “Okay, Sylvain.” He pressed his fingertips between his brows and took a slow, deep breath, composing himself.

Silence gathered overhead. Ten minutes back in the world and Sylvain’s throat was tight. Why did he feel so unsettled? He didn’t need Felix’s approval to wreck himself for an evening. Felix opened his eyes with an audible sigh that Sylvain knew damn well he was meant to hear.

“You’ve clearly had...some kind of night.” Felix scrutinized him, doubtless taking in all his flaws and failures. “Listen, my father’s waiting for me. I need to catch up with him, so I’ll see you later.”

Sylvain sidestepped to block his path, grimacing at the ache in his boot.

“Hey, wait a second, Fe.”

“Don’t call me that,” Felix snapped, suddenly furious.

House Gautier’s ancestors were reputed to have a propensity for dark magic. Maybe that’s what helped Sylvain remove himself at times like this, so the fireball of Felix’s anger only glanced off the surface while he stayed safe behind sheets of ice.

“Uh, okay, Felix. Come on, where are you going? What happened to make you voluntarily spend time with Rodrigue?”

“I don’t have time to explain, Sylvain.”

“Look, I’m sorry for disappearing on you, but I figured you might want some space after days of me chasing you around for company. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d miss me.”

“How could you —” Felix gaped, incredulous. “Thanks for that, Sylvain. Really. Very perceptive of you. I have to go.” He squared his shoulders, resolutely directing his gaze down the block.

“Let me make it up to you. I’ll go with, and we can talk on the way.” Sylvain assembled his face into what he hoped was a grin. It was hard to tell. “Wait until I fill you in on last night. There was this girl, Felix —”

“No thanks and not interested. You’re a mess, and if my father sees you like this...Just go back to the palace.” Felix refused to meet Sylvain’s eyes. “Things are fucked up enough as it is. I don’t need your help making them worse. Besides, you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Your vanishing act worked. If I were you, I’d apologize to Ingrid before she wonders why she keeps caring about you. Goddess knows I’m starting to ask myself.”

“Wow, fuck you too, Felix!” _Damn it, damn it, damn it._

Felix sneered and spat on the street, shoving past to stride away without looking back. Sylvain ground his teeth, stifling the apology that clambered for release. What the hell did he have to be sorry for anyway?

Ugh, he was disgusting. Given the state of his clothes, he might as well wear them into the tub and spare the palace laundry his unpleasantness. Sylvain trudged on, trying and failing to shake the memory of the hurt he’d seen in Felix’s eyes. The city looked as tired as he felt. He wondered if anyone in Fhirdiad had slept well since King Lambert’s death. Hopefully Dimitri eked out a little rest after they parted.

Ingrid’s door stood ajar, but she wasn’t there. Sylvain didn’t see her in the hall, so he returned to his own room and assessed himself in the mirror. Blood spotting his collar, bruise marring his cheek, mauve lipstick streaking his jaw. Every mark a story, none worth telling.

Pounding on the door sent him halfway out of his boots.

“Sylvain. You’d better be in there.”

His hand was still turning the knob when Ingrid shoved her way through and hurled a bedraggled wool coat in his face.

“Don’t even start,” she growled as he began to protest.

Sylvain removed the rather damp, decidedly malodorous coat from his head and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Well?” Ingrid seethed, clenching and unclenching her fists.

He shrugged, signaling that she’d asked him to stay quiet. She fixed him with a glare that could wilt flowers.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say. Technically, it looks like I got you out of your room.”

“Technically it was Felix. After he'd already barreled through half the taverns in Fhirdiad looking for you, he threatened to kick in my door if I didn't help him. I've been combing through the castle ever since.”

Felix had tried to find him? Sylvain tapped a pattern with his fingers on the desktop, a nervous tendency so ingrained it was subconscious.

“Wait, so all I needed to do for you was commit a little property damage?”

“Would you quit joking? Felix was really upset.”

His pulse thrummed, and the pressure behind his ribs kept building. He needed her to let this go.

“Because of me? Come on, you both know, I always take care of myself.” His face felt uncomfortably warm. Maybe he was still drunk.

“Damn it, Sylvain, you don’t understand,” she snapped.

“Then please, illuminate me,” Sylvain bit back, acid corroding his chest.

“Felix went looking for you because of Dimitri. You know, our good friend and future king who almost died?”

He’d meant to swallow his emotions; instead, they erupted in a caustic spray.

“You’re right, Ingrid, I completely forgot about His Highness. I certainly haven’t been checking in on what’s left of him, keeping him company and cleaning him up and trying to forget how he looks through me like I’m not even there half the time. And I haven’t been trying to stop Felix from throttling his own father or training until he collapses, or visiting your lonely horse when I'm up at dawn because I can’t fix a damn thing that’s broken. Fuck me, right?” He slumped with his head in his hands and waited for the door to slam.

“...Sylvain. Hey, look at me.”

Ingrid’s voice was soft, but he heard the quaver. What the fuck was wrong with him? He let his face crumple behind the safety of his palms.

“Come on, Syl. Let me in.”

He couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying. “Feed both our horses a few times, and I’ll think about it?” He lifted red-rimmed eyes above the horizon of his hands. “Sorry, Ingrid. You might be safer in your room.”

“Hold on, I'm not trying to make you feel — listen, we're all wrecks right now, but being a mess doesn't make any of us bad people. You know that, right?”

A contemptible heart could still break, it seemed. Sylvain managed a small smile and evaded her question.

“You said Felix was looking for me because of Dimitri?”

“Dimitri’s missing, Sylvain. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She sat on the rug, folding her knees beneath the skirt of her sage dress.

“What do you mean? Did Rufus drag him back to the royal wing already?”

Ingrid glanced down and noticed she was twisting Glenn’s ring around her finger. Her hands froze in place before she buried them in her pockets.

“No one knows. Felix went looking himself before he tried to find you, since you were the last one he saw with Dimitri. When that didn’t work, he came back to tell Rodrigue. Almost everyone left in the palace is searching, but they’re trying to keep it quiet. My father’s already heard rumors of unrest in western Faerghus since the massacre. If word gets out that our crown prince disappeared, who knows what could happen?”

Guilt weighed like a stone in his gut. He should have known whatever was going on with Felix wasn’t about him, but he kept underestimating his own selfishness.

“So you were afraid we were together in trouble somewhere.”

“Afraid, hopeful, I don’t know. How was he the last time you saw him?”

“A wreck, but still Dimitri underneath. You know, doing his usual ‘taking care of everyone else’ routine.” Sylvain decided to omit their impromptu trip to the throne room. “He practically ordered me to leave...damn. He must have been planning to disappear already, and I fell for it. I’ve always known what he was thinking just by looking at him. I guess that’s not true anymore.”

“Did he say anything at all that might help us find him?”

“I mean, he was pretty upset about the kingdom’s military response to Duscur.”

Ingrid frowned. “Why?”

“Sounds like the Duscuri people didn’t have anything to do with the ambush.” Sylvain slid onto the floor opposite Ingrid and leaned back against the desk leg.

“He can’t believe that.”

“Really? Who else lived to — sorry. I just mean, given the outcome, isn’t he the only person whose word we can trust?”

Ingrid looked stricken. “If he’s in the kind of shape you say, who knows what he actually saw? I know the Blaiddyds believed in Duscur, but that doesn’t mean we should waste time searching for answers when the guilty party is right in front of us.”

Sylvain could see the hollows under Ingrid’s eyes, the strain on her face revealing how much effort it took to stay in the conversation. He tucked Duscur away for future discussion.

“I bet he went to that hiding spot he used when he was a kid and fell asleep. He looked exhausted when I saw him.”

“That old chapel was the first place Felix checked. He’s been in Fhirdiad with Rodrigue and the royal guard for hours. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to be Dimitri when Felix catches up to him.”

Sylvain winced, remembering the morning’s thunderclap. “Yeah, me neither. I’m sure there’s an explanation. When has Dima ever been the one to disappear on us?”

Even with all that he’d lost, Dimitri had tangible proof that there were still people who loved him, who carried their hearts into the infirmary like offerings. It didn’t make sense to throw that devotion back in their faces knowing what his death would do to the ones he left behind.

“I can’t begin to understand what Dimitri’s going through,” Ingrid said. “Half the time, I think I’ve dreamed the whole thing, and I still believe Glenn’s alive even though I know he isn’t. I’m so lost, Sylvain. And I’m scared.” She trailed off and slid down to lie on the rug, staring at the ceiling.

He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to scream until his throat tore. Instead, he joined Ingrid on the rug, settling his head against her shoulder. It felt too cold; he wondered when she’d eaten last. Ingrid interlaced their fingers.

“Please don’t disappear like that again? We were worried about you, too.”

“Why, did some gorgeous damsel come looking for me?”

Ingrid pulled her hand away.

“You mean Alys, the poor besotted girl you threw over when you’d finished sticking your tongue down her throat? The one who returned your coat after you abandoned it with her, who Felix found crying in the courtyard because she didn’t know what she’d done wrong? That girl, Sylvain?”

The first one, then.

“Heh. Sorry. She did seem like the clingy type.”

“Why, because she believed all the pretty lines you fed her? And thank you, by the way — Felix panicked and brought her to my room, so lucky me, I heard all about your brief affair. I’m going to have nightmares about your love life.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘love’.”

Ingrid buried her face in her hands and kicked him in the knee. He decided not to mention the other girl.

“By the way, you smell awful.”

“I’m very aware, thanks.”

“Do you mind if I stay here awhile? I’m too tired to walk down the hall, as stupid as that sounds.”

“Not at all, but only if you get in my bed — ow, I didn’t mean it like that.” He rubbed his nose where she’d tweaked it. “I’ll feel better if I know you’re not lying on a rug that’s filthier than me.”

Ingrid grumbled but acquiesced, slipping off her boots. He tucked her under the duvet and pecked the crown of her head, giving the end of her French braid a gentle tug like he had when they were kids.

“Everything’s changed now,” she said sadly.

He forced an amiable grin. “Not me. Same old Sylvain, here to irritate and entertain you.”

Neither of them liked what they saw in each other’s eyes. Fortunately, they had an old, unspoken alliance of empty bellies and broken bones. It was second nature to look away.

“Get some rest. I’ll be back soon smelling like a rose.” He grabbed a change of clothes and delivered a reassuring smile that he knew Ingrid wouldn’t challenge.

The palace baths stood empty. Sylvain shucked off his boots and clothes, vowing to burn his shirt later, and sank into the vast, stone-lined pool, letting his head drop onto the rim. He’d come to appreciate the palace’s hot water after years of scraping his skin with ice-encrusted soap.

An anxious ouroborus of thoughts churned as he soaked. He loved Dimitri, not that his love meant much. Dimitri was different; Dimitri wouldn’t abandon his friends. Not without checking on Ingrid, not when he’d seen firsthand how fucked-up Felix was. Not when he had known a father who loved him and already had a replacement who’d do the same.

He stayed in the bath until he thought his freckles would melt. Upon return, Ingrid was snoring gently with her face mashed in the pillows. While he didn’t love the thought of nosy lords and ladies making assumptions later, he was damned if he’d send her back to her cold, lonely vigil for propriety’s sake.

Exhaustion settled heavy on his shoulders. He turned the desk chair to face the closed door and settled into its unyielding embrace as well as anyone possibly could, wrapping himself in a spare blanket from the foot of the bed. Sleep claimed him within minutes.

Sylvain thrashed in frigid water, scrabbling at ice-slick walls for purchase. This time, he had company in the dark, ominous and quiet and still. He fumbled around him until he felt warmth and life.

“Mitya? Is that you?” Sylvain’s whisper echoed in the narrow space, reverberating in his ears.

Dimitri didn’t speak, but Sylvain could hear his shallow, terrified breathing as he reached out and clung to Sylvain’s torso.

“Hang on, I can’t keep us both up,” Sylvain gasped, feeling the added weight pull him down towards the waterline.

It was a dream, only a dream; he wasn’t drowning and Dimitri wasn’t dragging them both under, but none of that mattered because Sylvain couldn’t breathe. He sputtered and struggled and finally wrenched away from his friend’s clutch, kicking towards the surface while his lungs seized.

He woke sweat-drenched and gasping, fingers digging painfully into his own arms. It took a while for his pounding heart to slow, and he thanked all the saints he barely believed in for Ingrid’s ability to sleep through anything short of cannon fire.

No chance of going back to sleep, not with the nightmare sluicing down his neck. He stretched towards the desk and retrieved his book on Sreng’s religious and cultural customs, retreating to the safety of anodyne histories from long before House Gautier became the bulwark of Faerghus. The words were meaningless; Sylvain scanned the same paragraphs over and over again, retaining nothing.

He spiraled up towards the ceiling to float safe above the mess of his life.

Long ago, he learned how little he could trust the world. No one with a healthy sense of self-preservation could rely on Sylvain Jose Gautier, either — so of course he fell for his own lies, holding fast to the fantasy that it could be different, that he could be different. As if it was safe to love anyone; as if anyone he loved was safe. Goddess, he was wretched.

With distance, he could see clearly how things would end if he didn’t drop the self-deceit. It was cold comfort, but at least there was a modicum of solace in doing what was best for everyone involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Frightened Rabbit, [Woke up Hurting](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/frightenedrabbit/wokeuphurting.html) which is among the most Sylvain songs of all time in my book. I would put together a playlist for this book but I don't actually want to depress you.


	10. Now We Eat the Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodrigue pressed his lips together and anger flared in his eyes. “Do not test my patience today, Felix. At least try living up to your brother’s legacy.” 
> 
> Felix puffed up his chest like he’d thrown down a gauntlet. “Let me repeat it one more time, old man: I’m. Not. Glenn. So throw that wish in his empty grave and leave me alone!”
> 
> _Come on. SAY IT._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy V-Day, have some angst with a side of medieval politics. 
> 
> This chapter straight-up would not exist without [frackingforaffection's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frackingforaffection/pseuds/frackingforaffection) Crest-level beta'ing power.
> 
> TWs: implied self-harm through overtraining FELIX; parental failures and fallout; Dimitri's definitely Not Okay; mind-numbing depths of emotional fuckwittery

Kingdom troops returned triumphant from Duscur and were greeted by the cheers of proud Faerghans and the gratitude of grieving families. They returned with bombastic battle yarns, assorted minor injuries, and two half-dead boys. They returned with delicate figurines forged by master coppersmiths, with lifetimes of careful savings stuffed in chipped crocks, with loveworn wedding bands passed down by mothers’ mothers’ mothers. 

He leaned against a stone archway and watched them unload the plunder. Three days earlier, messengers flew in to report a successful rout and a wounded heir. He’d digested the news and returned to the training yard, drilling until his joints ached and his grip was burst blisters, until he collapsed into dreamless sleep each night. Sylvain would nag about looming injuries, but Sylvain had been notably absent since their argument in town. Whatever. He didn’t have time to chase after Sylvain anyway, not when he needed to focus on quelling the emotions tangling his guts. 

Four squires moved swiftly towards the palace with a stretcher bourne between them. Felix squinted at Dimitri’s body until he’d seen the prince’s chest rise and fall. Relief gave way to fury in a breath. He sensed Rodrigue’s approach before his father’s shadow fell across his own.

“At least someone found him.” He ignored Rodrigue’s martyred sigh and kept his eyes fixed forward. “Will you finally admit the Shield of Faerghus failed, or is saving Dimitri from himself already my responsibility?”

Bristle-brush sounds: Rodrigue raking fingers through his goatee. When most would shout, his father scratched. Felix suppressed a twinge of guilt and slouched, grinding his boot in the dirt. How did a man that self-controlled produce two sons with as much decorum between them as a pair of pigs? Maybe he’d ask Rodrigue for help cutting his hair before the funeral. That was the closest to an apology he thought he could manage.

Across the yard, the regent sat scarecrow-stiff on a tired cart horse. Rufus conferred with his commanders before he dismounted, catching his Shield’s eye during the conversation. Felix felt an elbow dig between his shoulder blades and spun around with a tart retort nocked against his teeth. 

His sneer, a battlement. 

His tongue, a drawn bow. 

“Grand duke. Young lord.” 

Felix reluctantly stood down as Rufus approached, brushing days of road dust from his fur-lined cloak.

“Goddess be praised for your safe return, Your Majesty,” Rodrigue bowed, and Felix mirrored him, loathing it.

“My duke, you’ll regret keeping to the palace after you see the spoils my men secured. For now, tell me, what news from the kingdom?”

“Nothing that will please you, I fear.” 

Rufus scowled and signaled for his advisor to proceed. 

“As expected, I have received reports of unrest among minor lords from the Rhodos Coast to Arianrhod. You know well, the west is enduring a third year of famine, and our late snows suggest another cold winter to come. I believe King Lambert to wrote you about his agricultural plans? We recently began negotiations with the Central Church to secure stipends for equipment that territories need to adopt three-crop rotation systems—” 

“The western territories have been troublesome since the Church of Seiros sundered ages hence. Farming will not placate them.” 

Rodrigue’s face tightened before he quickly regained his composure. “My liege, if each locality could harvest twice a year, our agricultural experts believe the kingdom could significantly improve regional food security and be buffered against the inevitable poor harvests from our central fields in the Tailtean Plains.”

“Meanwhile, monsters rampage through Itha, nobles remain incensed with their treatment at my brother’s hands, and the Empire’s economic development continues to outpace our own. Agricultural policy solves none of this.”

“Sire, the church is keenly interested in maintaining a cooperative relationship with Faerghus — as our new leader, your influence cannot be overstated. If you declared your support for the program, it would be the impetus we need to finalize an agreement before the west deteriorates any further. Remove the conditions that ambitious men use to foment insurrection, and you will save the cost of a military campaign — and avoid shedding the blood of our own people.”

The regent’s expression darkened. “Do not presume to lecture me about peace when my brother’s diplomatic approach led him into an early grave. I will not put a price on maintaining a strong, secure country, your grace, and I have little patience for those who’d see me repeat Lambert’s mistakes. Those who rebel against the crown lose their right to be treated as Faerghans. Send orders to Count Rowe to suppress dissension by any means necessary.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Rodrigue’s voice took on a subtle tension, like a violin peg rotated too far. Anyone less familiar with his father’s pitch would miss it. “Moving on to the east, House Gautier requests border reinforcements, which I advise granting. Sreng may seize this opportunity to launch campaigns and retake its southern lands.”

“Sreng would do well to mind what transpired in Duscur. If they encroach again, we won’t stop until we wipe them out and reach the northern sea.”

“Understood, majesty.” Rodrigue kept his face neutral and bowed more deeply, a humble hand pressed over his heart. Felix felt a stab of resentment. How easy his father found it to change masks whenever a different guise served his purpose. 

“Sire, prior to receiving your messengers, I had started a search for Prince Dimitri under the pretense of hunting Duscuri conspirators. Please be assured, only my most reliable retainers know the truth. If I may, my liege, how fares His Highness?” 

Rufus frowned and looked pointedly at Felix, who ground his teeth to avoid speaking out of turn.

“My son discovered him missing, majesty. As the prince’s future hand, Felix knows to be discreet.”

“Is that so?” Rufus sniffed. “When it comes to the merits of one’s children, I hope your judgment proves more sound than that of my brother.”

Felix needed the elbow jab that time, though he’d never admit it. 

“As for my nephew, the bishops are concerned about additional scarring, but they have assured me Prince Dimitri will regain his full strength with time.” 

Felix scrunched his eyes shut. He would throttle impetuous Dima and his terrible good intentions.

“When he has recovered enough to travel, I will send him to Fraldarius. You have seen how fragile he is, and distance may help him recover himself.” Rufus made a face that was meant to be sympathetic but only made Felix want to vomit. 

“It would be my honor to host His Highness.” 

“Mind, I will also ask you to take the one he insisted on bringing to Fhirdiad, if we are unfortunate enough that the boy survives.”

“It would be my pleasure to receive the young man.” 

The regent arched his brow and considered Rodrigue with cold, impassive eyes. 

From their lengthy, if one-sided, conversations during the fruitless search, Felix knew his father was deeply troubled by the retaliation; he’d avoided funding the regent’s response with a ludicrous claim that Fraldarius had pledged to supplement Galatea’s security budget in the coming winter. No one placed Galatea high on the list of territories worth raiding. 

“I am afraid we both underestimated the fervency of the prince’s passions,” Rufus finally said. “Perhaps as he matures he will become capable of seeing reason.”

_Yes and perhaps shipping him to Fraldarius will give you more opportunities to discreetly fuck half the kingdom for your Crest-bearing heir._

Felix might be fighting with Sylvain, but Sylvain was right about what mattered to people like Rufus Blaiddyd — and it wasn’t his nephew’s welfare. After countless hours dragging behind Glenn and Rodrigue while they mollified the nobility, Felix could classify nobles as quickly as he arranged weapons. Rufus’s kind was dangerous: self-conceited, perpetually wronged, a holder of grudges. The type that insisted they were unmanipulable while they danced like puppets for more cunning men. Whatever he’d ostensibly set out to achieve, Dimitri had certainly succeeded in affixing a target to his own back.

Impatient, Felix waited for the men to finish their empty exchanges. 

The last time he skulked beneath this same archway, he’d ignored his brother’s wave as Glenn departed for his death. 

He buried that thought.

Once the king’s attendants shepherded their interim liege into the palace, Felix started towards the infirmary. Rodrigue snagged him by his sword belt.

“Come to my quarters, son. There’s something you should see.”

He wanted to bolt the instant Rodrigue ushered him through the door. 

Glenn illuminated rooms and left just enough shadow for Felix to follow, avoiding the eyes that scrutinized all his flaws. Once it was safe, Glenn knew how to coax him out with a laughing challenge or an irritating jest, with the shared language of motherless brothers. Felix intended to spend his life growing in that light until he, too, knew how it felt to make heads turn, to fill a space until it took his shape.

He was having trouble breathing. 

Rodrigue guided Felix forward with a gentle hand, oblivious to his son’s sweat-slicked palms, to eyes that darted anywhere but the bed. Felix didn’t want to see the shroud, Blaiddyd-blue like the cloak Glenn received with his dubbing, the one he paraded in for hours at home to make Felix fume with envy. Whatever this finely woven cloth concealed was too small to be Glenn. Rodrigue unwrapped the shroud, and Felix felt petrified while the muscles in his legs twitched, begging to run. He needed to remember Glenn his way, not like this, _please, not like this_. Goddamn it, why couldn’t he make his mouth work?

Rodrigue handed him the folded cloth like a gift. Felix barely felt the fabric in his hands as he took in the ruined hauberk, battered sword and blackened spur. The tattered chainmail like moth-eaten cloth. The sword unrecognizable if not for the Fraldarius Crest etched above its cruciform hilt. 

“The knights went to some trouble to bring him home to us.” 

His father smoothed out the empty mail with reverence, and it made Felix want to scream. Four fucking saints, Glenn was strewn in pieces on a field. This was the dressing for a body they would never bury.

“Don’t ever let Ingrid see this.” He sounded like a spear end scraping through gravel. 

At the sound, Rodrigue finally considered his still-living son.

“I think it would bring her comfort to know that Glenn died like a true knight, Felix.”

He bit down on his tongue and felt blood rush to his cheeks. It was too warm in the suffocating stillness of this room with its dead occupants; they sucked up all the air.

“The knights found one other item.” Rodrigue smiled sadly and reached into his pocket. He extended his cupped hand towards Felix, opening it to reveal Glenn’s sigil ring, speckled rust-red. 

Felix stared, strangled, lips parted. His face felt wet — shit. Rodrigue came closer and placed his son’s hand atop his own, curling their fingers around the ring. Felix shuddered and wrenched his hand free.

“What is this?” he choked out.

“This ring has been in our family for centuries, passed down from eldest son to eldest son since Kyphon Fraldarius first served King Loog. Glenn would want it to be yours as the future of our House.”

“No, I mean _this_.” He gestured wildly. “What are you doing, Father? Why would you want to see — why would you want _me_ to know what’s being boxed up for our fake burial?”

This was usually the point where Glenn would put a firm hand on his shoulder and steer him away before Felix broke down or blew up. Felix decided to see what would happen if he stayed. Rodrigue’s smile faded, but he still held out the blasted ring.

“Felix, you should be proud. Your brother believed in his calling. He died upholding our family’s—”

“'Honor and duty and sacred cause,' I know, _I know!_ You keep saying that like it matters, as if I care about meaningless words when my brother is dead. Your _son_ is dead! Who gives a shit about the sacred duty of House Fraldarius now? You? Because I don’t. Not anymore.” He swiped at his tears with the heinous shroud and hurled it back on the bed. 

Rodrigue narrowed his brows and returned the ring to his pocket. Was that color Felix saw creep up his neck?

“You have made your feelings well-known, Felix.”

“Apparently not well enough, since you keep expecting me to react some other way.” 

Rodrigue pressed his lips together and anger flared in his eyes. “Do not test my patience today, Felix. At least try living up to your brother’s legacy.” 

Felix puffed up his chest like he’d thrown down a gauntlet. “Let me repeat it one more time, old man: I’m. Not. Glenn. So throw that wish in his empty grave and leave me alone!”

_Come on. SAY IT._

“You’re right. You are not Glenn. _Glenn_ did his duty in Duscur, and his sacrifice saved Prince Dimitri. If _you_ had been in his place, I expect I would be burying our country’s future instead of my son.” 

Their relationship splintered with the smack of his fist.

Knuckles throbbing, eyes streaming, he finally fled the room. In the training yard, he shed his tunic and bit the hem, grinding down until he’d rent the fabric enough to tear a series of long, fraying strips. Makeshift wraps would do, and one hand was already a mess anyway. 

They would bury a casket without a body and call it a blessing. Fuck them all.

He punched a straw-stuffed training dummy in its chest and bludgeoned the ache in his own. He danced and jabbed and peppered his footwork with strikes, translating all his unsaid words into hooks and crosses, a better language for bringing weak men to their knees. He’d hurled his words and his first real punch with raw emotions instead of cold intentions, and both proved insufficient. Next time he needed to break someone, Felix would be ready to deliver the fatal blows.

  
  


This time, he flailed awake with his father’s death wail ringing in his ears.

Fragmented memories tumbled through Dimitri’s mind and eluded his grasp before he could catch hold. Shafts of light piercing a canopy of trees. Jarring motion, delirious haze, stifling air. The blade of his uncle’s voice slicing above him. 

He tried sitting. An avalanche in his head. Sagged against the sweat-soaked pillow. Descended back into nightmares.

Maybe the same day, maybe not. Waking up like riding into battle, dry mouth and hammering heart. Silence pressed down on his chest while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. 

Ah. His room in the palace, with a banked fire and the heavy drapes drawn. Disquiet nibbled his thoughts: Why here and not the infirmary? His left arm was bound to his torso in a complicated sling, and moving seemed complicated — but then he remembered the boy with the wood axe and rolled up without thinking.

His back was a split log. Every colorful phrase Sylvain ever uttered galloped through his thoughts. Stifling a cry, Dimitri bit through his lower lip and fought an instinct to crush the nearest bedpost. He buried his face in his free hand; warm, tacky blood seeped down his wrist and of course, _of course,_ he still couldn’t taste it. He pressed his palm down harder to see if it would staunch the flow, and at least the pain distracted him from the rest of his body for a moment. 

Dimitri took a ragged breath and looked around until he found the Duscuri youth, bandaged and relegated to a cot in the corner farthest from the fire. Any relief was fleeting: Rufus had upheld his end of their bargain, but what price would he exact in return?

The heavy oak door cracked open and a slender, porcelain-skinned spy peeped into view.

“What in the name of Sothis did you do to your face?” Felix hissed.

Dimitri glanced down and took in the fresh splotches streaking his chest. Embarrassed, he started to explain, but Felix shushed him with a slashing hand motion as he eased the door closed. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a crumpled rag, which he balled up and tossed near enough for Dimitri to snag without making his back scream.

“Try using that instead of your hand. Goddess help us if you’re like this when you’re king.”

It was definitely a cleaning cloth, copiously spotted with blade oil, but Felix was coiled like an adder preparing to strike, and surely it was an improvement over his palm. Dimitri obediently pressed the rag to his face, wrinkling his nose; there was nothing wrong with his sense of smell, anyway. 

“You have no idea how much trouble you’re in, Dimitri,” Felix whispered.

He cleared his throat, wincing at the way his bones complained. “I may have some inkling.”

“I meant with me.” The murder in Felix’s eyes made Dimitri break into a cold sweat.

“Before you finish me off, would you consider granting one last wish and check to see if our new friend is still breathing?” He widened his eyes, trying to look particularly pathetic, which wasn’t difficult.

“Do I have a choice? Otherwise, you’ll probably drag yourself across the floor as soon as I’m gone. Acting without thinking seems to be a pattern now.” Felix glared at the fleur-de-lis rug and shoved his fists under his cloak. 

Guilt hit like a mace. “Felix, I’m so sorry for—”

“Save it. I wasn’t exaggerating how furious I am. The fact that I need to tell you at all, let alone more than once, is making it worse. Sit there, shut up, and let me take a look at whoever it is you’ve, what, rescued? Is he the reason you left us?”

“Felix…”

“I said I don’t want to hear it.”

Dimitri wished he could vanish. Shame flooded his thoughts while he tried blending into the sheets. Abandoning his friends was bad enough, but without trying, he could still _feel_ the atrocities in Duscur. The blades staving in his back. The dry twigs snapping when he closed his fists. Taking life was monstrous. Taking life was terrifying. But the killing itself had been effortless.

He could never tell anyone about what he’d done. Maybe if he worked hard enough, he could make himself forget.

“ _Dimitri_. Are you even listening to me? I said he’s breathing and the bandages look clean.”

Dimitri recoiled like he’d been slapped. Had Felix been talking to him? Before he could recalibrate, Felix crossed the room to peer into his eyes, brows knit with concern.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t mean to giggle, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Fine, forget that I asked,” Felix said, hurt flickering before he smothered it and started backing away.

“Wait, Felix, I didn’t mean to upset you. It isn’t even funny. This sounds ridiculous, but hearing the question made me realize you’re the first person who’s asked since my parents died.”

Felix folded his arms and frowned. “You’re joking. Not even my old man?”

“Old man? Oh, you mean Rodrigue? No, I think I’d remember.”

“ _Tch,_ of course he didn’t. Why do I expect anything different from that pathetic excuse for a father?”

An awkward silence filled the space between them. Dimitri checked the smudged rag to see if he’d stopped bleeding. He’d ask the doctors for some kind of disinfecting treatment later, to be on the safe side. Felix went to the windows and opened the drapes, letting in a flood of light that made Dimitri’s headache intensify.

“I’m not even supposed to be here. I snuck in between shift changes,” Felix eventually said. “If anyone hears us, I doubt I’ll be able to do it again.”

“Could you not use the window?”

Felix snorted. “Don’t push it, Dima. Besides, you’re higher up than the infirmary. I have my limits.”

“I don’t understand why I’m not there right now.”

“Why would I know? You certainly haven’t told me anything. Although this time, I have the distinct sense that the guards aren’t dissuading unwanted visitors so much as keeping you and your ‘guest’ confined. What the hell did you do to piss off your uncle so much? Glenn’s friends aren’t talking — the ones I can find, anyway.”

That didn’t sound good. Dimitri hedged and toyed with his sling. “It would be fair to say I created something of a stir.”

“I gathered that much. Explain yourself.” 

Felix waited, tapping his foot, hands braced on his hips. Dimitri avoided his gaze. He couldn’t lie to him, but the truth defied his own understanding, and he needed to protect the one person he couldn’t lose.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Felix grumped. “But next time you pick a fight, remember my neck’s closely associated with your own. Now move your feet, or I’ll sit on them.”

Dimitri shifted carefully to make space, noticing how Felix favored his sword arm as he clambered onto the bed and stiffly folded his legs to one side. They were close enough that if Felix wanted, he could lean forward to rest his head on Dimitri’s knees. 

“What happened to your hands?” Dimitri asked, noticing Felix’s abraded knuckles and torn palms.

“Nothing,” Felix scoffed. “I’m working on close-combat skills.” His narrowed eyes dared Dimitri to prod further and prove himself a hypocrite.

“Should I be worried that I’m within range?”

“A smart man would be, so probably not.”

“Touché.” 

They exchanged brief, sardonic smiles. Felix stared over Dimitri’s shoulder, clearly deciding what he wanted to say. 

“I did come up here for a reason,” he admitted, reaching behind him to withdraw a short sword from his back holster.

Dimitri stared, utterly confused. “Wait, _do_ you want to kill me?”

“Dimitri, I’ve had countless opportunities where you weren’t paying attention.”

“That’s not making me feel any better.”

“Damn it, would you let me finish?” Felix grimaced, knuckles going bloodless on the sword grip as he spoke. “I want you to help me cut my hair the way you did. Wait, not exactly — I definitely want mine to look better than yours.” He eyed Dimitri’s uneven crop with skepticism. 

“Oh,” Dimitri managed, swallowing down the desire to immediately reach for Felix’s hair tie. 

“You’re right, it’s a stupid idea. Never mi—”

“Hold on, I’d be honored, Felix. Only, I’m down to one good hand at the moment.” He managed a rueful grin and waggled the fingers on his constrained arm.

“No shit.”

It suddenly became very important to fulfill this ill-advised request. Dimitri frantically dug through his brain to find anything that would persuade Felix.

“I bet we could make it work if you held sections while I cut? With the edge away from your face, of course, and we probably shouldn’t use an actual sword—”

“It’s a seax.”

“I stand corrected.” Goddess help him. “It is a lovely blade but perhaps a little much for the job, wouldn’t you say? Let’s use my dagger — stop making that face, it worked perfectly well. Blame the hands, not the tool. Hopefully I remembered to put it back in the desk, if you don’t mind looking?”

Felix muttered but put the short sword, no, seax, back in its scabbard. He slid off the bed, flinching when his wrist flexed — definitely overtraining by the looks of it — and rummaged around until he found the bone-handled dagger, returning to his seat with a look of disbelief.

“Do you ever clean this?”

“Honestly, I’ve never needed to think about it before. This is the first knife that’s lasted me more than six months. I doubt it has long to go.” Dimitri repressed a shudder, remembering the bones he’d cracked in recent weeks.

“You’re right, we’re definitely not using my blade. Why do I stay friends with you?” Felix rolled his eyes in exasperation but couldn’t hide his smirk. It felt like a spot of balm on a festering wound.

“So, how do you want to proceed?” 

Felix shrugged. “I don’t know. Not like you did.” 

Dimitri suppressed an internal scream. “Okay, I think if it’s anything you can’t tuck back, you’ll drive yourself mad on the training grounds. Would you prefer shorn or chin-length?”

“Grooming is Sylvain’s area of expertise, not mine.” 

Felix released his hair band and the light shimmered in the blue-black cape that cascaded around his shoulders in an iridescent wave. Dimitri clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping through the floor.

“Let’s start longer then,” he said, laboring to maintain a neutral tone. “We can always take it up if you decide you don’t like it. I mean, it’s your hair, so whatever you want to do is fine, but it might be easier to manage if you don’t have to grow it out as much as I will, because that’s going to be annoying now that I think about it—”

“Cichol’s arse, Mitya, stop chattering and start cutting.”

“Right. Sorry.” Maybe he could reopen his lip in the process and deal with that, instead of whatever had rendered him a jabbering loon.

Felix scooted close enough for every one of his eyelashes to be counted if anyone had wanted. He passed Dimitri the dagger and seized a hank of hair in his fist, wringing the life out of it with his eyes shut. Dimitri considered his own trembling hand, perplexed. He was worried about hurting his friend, but this sheer nervous energy seemed excessive. He took a deep breath and leaned forward to make a swift, careful slice away from Felix’s neck. 

Felix exhaled sharply and opened his eyes, considering the long strands dangling from his fingers before tossing them onto the floor. He craned his neck for a glimpse in the mirror by the wardrobe and padded the empty space below his jaw, looking pensive.

“No one’s come near me with a pair of scissors in years. I don’t know if I’ll recognize my own reflection when we’re through. Was it like that for you?”

Dimitri felt his chest tighten. It had been, but...He waited until Felix met his eyes before raising and rotating his hand so the light caught its patchwork of pink scars. 

“Right. That was stupid of me.”

They worked in silence until Dimitri tapped his knee and motioned for Felix to rotate so he could reach the back. This part was more arduous.

“Why didn’t you have Rodrigue help you instead?”

Felix became a glacier, betrayed only by the subtlest twitch of the muscles in his neck. Dimitri remembered the infirmary, the limitations of language. Hesitant, he set down the knife with care and hovered his hand over Felix’s shoulder, risked a quick, tentative squeeze and felt the muscles release under his touch. He exhaled and nodded to himself, resuming his work. Fatigue gnawed his arm. One last cut.

When he finished, they stayed facing the same direction for a while. Felix put his head down, still twisting the last handful of hair between his fingers.

“Thank you.” His voice trembled, the subtlest mantle of pink edging up from his collar.

Dimitri swallowed hard, his heart in his throat. Without a focal point, heavy clouds had swept into his mind before he felt their shadow. 

“For what?”

“Don’t, Dima.” 

Felix turned his head enough that Dimitri saw the tears glimmer, and that was all it took. 

“I’m serious, Felix. All I’ve done is hurt you. Your brother is dead, and you have to be all the things you never wanted to because of me, and I didn’t even—” his voice broke — “I should have told you where I was going, what I was doing, but I didn’t and I don’t know why, and I’m sorry, Felix.”

“Blaming yourself doesn’t help me. Just stop,” Felix snapped and shifted to face him, his eyes a crackling storm. 

“I can’t, I don’t know how, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, Felix. I don’t know what to do,” Dimitri babbled.

The skies opened and Felix reached for him. One hand ghosted his back while the other cupped his neck, bringing their foreheads together with a tenderness that Dimitri remembered from years past when their affection had been easily given, easily received.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Dimitri whispered, keeping his eyes low.

“Please stop talking about it,” Felix begged, voice quavering as he pulled Dimitri into his arms. “I can’t do this, Myshka, even for you.”

Dimitri felt a hot tear drip onto his shorn head. Felix’s shirt grew damp under his cheek. His back howled and his injured shoulder was mashed into something bony, but he wrapped his free arm around Felix’s torso and held on, desperately trying to be gentle, to avoid hurting anyone more. Felix cradled the prince’s neck in one hand and smoothed the other up and down an unbandaged bicep while Dimitri wept silently against his chest.

“I’m still mad at you."

Dimitri felt Felix mumble the words into his scalp, and light slivered the clouds.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from my Shield.”

Felix went very still. Dimitri slowly extricated himself from their embrace and found Felix looking at him in despair.

“I need you to promise me something, Dimitri.”

“Anything. Everything.”

“Don’t ever leave me behind again. In a few more years, we’ll be the ones fighting for Faerghus, and if I can’t see you...if I can’t protect you…” He pressed a palm against Dimitri’s cheek, and Dimitri’s heart staggered. 

“I won’t.”

“You have to promise,” Felix said, leaving his hand to burn on Dimitri’s skin.

“Felix, wherever I go, whatever battles we face, you will be at my side. I swear it.”

Felix studied Dimitri’s eyes until he was satisfied. He gave a curt nod, almost smiled. 

They lay the way they had when their world made sense, Dimitri’s arm under Felix’s head, chest pressed into his back, hearts keeping time together. It didn’t take long for Felix to drift off, but Dimitri stayed awake, considering the brittle hope in his hands. He didn’t trust himself with anything fragile, but maybe he should try. Maybe he could still fix things, be better than what he was, become the person Felix thought he saw. Maybe then it wouldn’t matter if Dimitri never believed it himself.

For the first time in three weeks, he slept without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Frightened Rabbit, [Break](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/frightenedrabbit/break.html)
> 
> Painting of a Panic Attack has been on rotation more or less since I started working on this fic.


	11. Rough Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nations that shared borders with Faerghus knew the names of its major lords — as well as which kingdom territories were safe to travel through after sundown, and which to avoid, day or night. Dedue’s rescuer was _the_ prince, which meant they had to be in Fhirdiad: an insular, relatively impoverished capital that had pushed its small immigrant populations into cramped districts centuries earlier, a city so treacherous that even his steadfast father avoided it on trading trips. The bastion of House Blaiddyd, killer of his people.
> 
> Gods help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW throughout the chapter for garden-variety Faerghus racism. Welcome home, Dedue :(
> 
> *sniff* Y'all. We're about to break 50,000 words and 1,000 story clicks, so if you have a fun idea for how I should celebrate with you, I am all ears. Thank you for reading, commenting, bookmarking and joining me for some very on-brand Blue Lions angst. It's been a blast chatting with folks in the comments, even if most of my responses are unintelligible freakout about Dimitri and Sylvain. 
> 
> All credit to [antimonicacid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimonicacid) for their sensitivity review, which made this chapter stronger than anything I could have done on my own. Also they're just a rockstar, so go read their fics already.
> 
> Ongoing, never-ending gratitude to frackingforaffection. Everything she reviews is better for her keen eye, and she puts up with me screaming about Dimitri all the damn time.

Most summers, Dedue’s family spent the last half of Blue Sea Moon camping along Duscur’s wild western coastline, where ancient groves of Fódlan’s tallest fir trees opened onto scrubland and tawny beaches. Over the years, Teo taught his children to differentiate between mouse-brown shorebirds that skipped like stones over the waves, and Rana showed them how to set crab pots and cast fishing lines beyond the breakers. 

1173, Elk Cove, a stretch of shimmering sand. Safiya learned her first spells, manipulating driftwood fragments until they rose and spun in a lacy whirlwind. 

1174, Blessed Beach, whale spouts in the distance. Gwenhwyvar elk grazed the wildflowers, and Dedue sketched new ironwork patterns inspired by shed antlers scattered across the meadow, sun-bleached and wind-blasted. 

1175, Curlew’s Hook, salt-damp dune grass. Safiya wanted to fish for sole, and she cast spells that slapped wet rockweed across Dedue’s back until he set down his journal with a sigh. Being the eldest was a burden.

“Remember what happens if you venture out too far,” their mother warned, while Dedue peeled algae off his neck. “A smelly, scaly sea monster will squiggle around your ankles and make you its snack.” 

Rana winked at her son, and he stooped to tickle his fingers up Safiya’s legs, making her squeal with delighted terror.

_ Warm weight on his chest, fingers tangled with his own. Armored knights lifted something — someone — away from him, and the pressure eased.  _

Dedue was a strong swimmer. Rana trusted him to monitor for sneaker waves, and he’d find warm depressions where he and Safiya could wriggle their toes into the silt and feel the tug of outgoing currents against the backs of their calves. Afternoons elapsed in whimsical yarns spun sentence-by-sentence. They waded ashore when Safiya grew too cold to work the reel, Dedue a beat behind in case the lonely tide tried to keep her.

_ Apart from the dried blood splashed across his limp features, the Faerghan looked more like a gangly teenager than a fearsome warrior. _

Dedue’s blood was ice. He’d lingered in the sea too long. He needed to ask his mother why he couldn’t remember making the trip this year, but first he had to reach land, where his family waited. The returning tide had submerged him completely; his parents and sister would be worried sick.

_ “Damn your orders. I took an oath to heal anyone in need, and I’ll lose my position before I let this child die. Get out of my way and let me work.”  _

_ A tense woman in billowing cobalt robes swam into view. _

_ “There you are,” she murmured. “Stay with me awhile, hm?” _

Dedue resurfaced in a laborious sequence of fits and starts, confused by the sounds that rose whenever his head broke above the waves. Hoofbeats and wagon wheels, clanking metal and cacophonous voices. When he struggled past the tideline, he was alone. 

_ Floating through the sky, strapped to a massive wyvern, he heard the rider mutter about casting off dead weight if she had a choice.  _

Dedue awoke to a flood of physical pain and the taste of saltwater on his tongue. Distressed, he felt  _ things  _ wrapped around him that bound his limbs, toothsome leviathans escaped from their stories. In a panic, he tore off a long segment from his thigh before registering it as a bandage. He licked his lips and tried calling for his mother, but his voice was gone, so he shoved aside the hurt and forced himself to sit up.

This was a silent, stone-walled tomb, not his airy, sunlit home where Duscur warblers sang from the window ledges. In the shadows, Dedue recognized the motionless form of the Faerghus boy, tangled in a rumpled sheet on a substantial canopy bed. The riptide pulled him under. Safiya. His parents. His friends and their parents. The town, the house, the chickens, the cherry trees, all of it, everything gone and gone and gone.

Danger approached with mismatched strides: robust and quick, clipped and languid. Dedue sank back into the cot, shut his eyes and prayed.

“Light the candles, would you, and pass me one of those hydration charms. I’ll take the Duscuri kid.” A man’s sotto voice, directed to someone tip-tapping across the room.

“Fine by me,” a strident woman responded. After a few moments of rustling fabric, she sighed. “Four saints, I can’t believe His Highness survived. What kind of person strikes a child so hard?”

“The same kind who nearly killed this child, too.” 

“You really think so?” Her tone both judge and jury.

A tired sigh stirred the air by Dedue’s head. Perhaps the goddess of protection had guided the man to him, or steered the woman towards the — did she say “highness”? Gentle hands unwrapped Dedue’s dressings while he fought to control his breath. 

“I’ve heard it was Duscuri assassins, and I’ve heard it was our own soldiers,” the man said. “If I was a gambling man, I’d place all my gold on never knowing the truth. None of the knights will say a word, and you know what gossips they are. Hell, my sister can’t get her own wife to talk.” 

“Hmph. My money’s on Duscur, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Poor Prince Dimitri. I’m still knitting fragments of this shoulder together, and his back’s a mess. I don’t see how we can expect the nerves to heal completely.”

“Did Lady Arnim confirm whether our forces had spells binding their weapons?”

The woman made a frustrated sound. “No. She insists such details are a matter of national security. You know, Cornelia was a good mentor to me in the plague years, when I was a terrified resident who’d just watched my teachers lose the queen. But these days…”

“The winds are shifting, Angharad. Let them carry off that thought unspoken.” 

The man had been treating and rewrapping wounds, but his hands paused above Dedue’s thudding heart. Dedue held his breath to slow his racing pulse before he realized what he’d done.

“What would I do without your mediating presence, Eddard? Anyway, the injury certainly responds like the sword had poison woven into its blade, but no one’s been able to identify the incantation. You know the wrong antidote could trigger an immune reaction that undoes all our good work, and someone already pushed too much white magic into His Highness as it is.”

“Battlefield bishops don’t usually make mistakes like that.” The doctor did not draw attention to his patient’s new awareness, and Dedue had no intention of questioning the decision. “Could it have happened here? Didn’t some of the palace healers lose relatives in the ambush?”

Dedue suppressed a flinch and wondered how many of the people treating him sympathized with the soldiers who killed his family.

“Saints, of course, they could have been too agitated to think straight.”

“Or maybe it was in Duscur — a combination of battle stress and their surprise royal patient.”

“Either way, Prince Dimitri’s been thrumming with white magic since I came on shift, and we can’t risk heart damage. We’ll have to bide our time and hope the bloodline helps him heal. Make a note in his chart to wait two days before anyone tries another restorative spell.”

“I’ll write it up before I sign out.” Dedue heard a stopper uncork, and the healer spread a glob of foul-smelling salve on his chest. 

“Don’t waste that ointment on him. We’re running low on comfrey, and I need every bit I can scrape out of that jar for His Highness.”

“We have enough for both, I’m sure.” 

Warm, defiant hands worked more of the medicine into the deep wound where the arrow had lodged. How many people had bickered about Dedue’s care while he’d been unaware and vulnerable? Was he alive through divine intervention, or through the whims of sympathetic doctors who maneuvered to treat the Duscuri patient? 

“On the bright side, this one’s mending nicely.” Dedue felt a reassuring hand on his brow. “Fever’s gone, wounds are regranulating — physically, he’ll be good as new, Sothis willing.”

“By all means, break out the palace wine.”

“He’s still a patient, Dr. Maddog,” Eddard said in a mild tone.

“I am very aware, Dr. Hywel, believe me. If it wasn’t for my blasted oath...” Dedue felt the waves close over his head again. “I’m finished here. Snuff the candles, and let’s go.”

The man sighed and patted Dedue’s shin. 

“If they’re not up tomorrow, we’ll need to figure out how to keep the dehydration from getting worse...” His voice faded as the door closed.

Once the sounds of their footsteps subsided, Dedue counted to one hundred, then opened his eyes and stared at the imposing stone ceiling while he grappled with the enormity of what he’d overheard.  _ Prince _ Dimitri. Nations that shared borders with Faerghus knew the names of its major lords, as well as which kingdom territories were safe to travel through after sundown — and which to avoid, day or night. Dedue’s rescuer was  _ the  _ prince, which meant they had to be in Fhirdiad: an insular, relatively impoverished capital that had pushed its small immigrant populations into cramped districts centuries earlier, a city so treacherous that even his steadfast father avoided it on trading trips. The bastion of House Blaiddyd, killer of his people.

Gods help him. 

Last month, in school, what had Idara said about the Blaiddyds? Dedue pictured their classroom, Idara perched beside him on the long wooden bench, her eyes the warm, rich brown of a marsh wren, poising her quill like a question mark above their math problem. Her close-cropped, argent hair smelled like the sprays of butterfly sedum that painted Duscur fields a vibrant cornflower-blue after the first spring rains.

“My mother wants to trust Lambert, I can tell, no matter how much she insists she’s too cynical to believe a Faerghan,” Idara declared. Her mother was one of the envoys who’d spent two years brokering the incipient treaty with the kingdom. 

Dedue knew better than to challenge Idara on political affairs. She was the smartest person he knew, and both of her mothers were heavily involved with Duscur’s binational relations. Moreover, the algebra exercise was to be completed in silence, so he waited for Idara to continue and tried to look studious, in case the teacher glanced their way.

“Look, Dee, all I’m saying is we’ve been hearing for years about the king’s reform efforts, and sure, they seem like the real thing. The lords across the border are actually being held accountable for what happens on their land — finally, my cousin might get to live with his wife and kids on the Faerghus side without vigilantes driving him back to Duscur, or worse. Honestly, I’m almost excited about that proposed exchange program with Garreg Mach, even if I’d hate spending a year around a bunch of stuck-up Fódlan students.” 

Studying far from home at a conservative religious school didn’t sound appealing in the slightest, but he tried to look agreeable.

“We have to be realistic, though,” she said. “This is the same king who annexed a whole chunk of Sreng when we were little. Okay, Duscur and Faerghus haven’t been raiding each other for generations, but if I was in charge, it would take more than Lambert Blaiddyd’s personal visit to convince me I should trust the kingdom.”

“I’d like to see any king try to change your mind,” Dedue teased. 

Of course, that was the moment the teacher heard their chatter and waved Dedue towards his podium. Idara smirked and bent her head over the equation, and Dedue realized he would get in trouble every day if it could make her grin like that. 

1176, Fhirdiad, cracked shells scattered on a dry seabed. Choose one and press an ear to its husk for echoes of the world it lost.

Dedue heard Dimitri battle into alertness like a wolf in a steel-jaw trap. He heard the prince’s fierce friend approach the cot for a cursory glance, and he heard them struggle under the weight of what they left unsaid. He stopped listening and imagined a gelid sea that submerged his mind and heart and memories until he was too numb to feel.

Some time later, a strangled yelp and bone-juddering crash made him jerk up involuntarily, where he discovered the prince of Faerghus lying in a heap on the floor, wrestling with the blanket that tangled his legs. 

Piercing blue eyes sparkled against bruise-marred, pale skin. “Oh! You are awake! That’s wonderful. Although, I am sorry if I disturbed you. I thought that I’d be able to get out of bed without much trouble, but between this blasted cast and my back, I confess I’m finding it rather difficult.” 

Dedue hesitated. Dimitri was poised to become one of the most powerful people in a merciless nation, and Dedue had seen the swift strikes of the prince’s own justice. Yet incongruously, here was Dimitri, grinning without artifice and seemingly unconcerned that he was snarled in his own sheets.

“Would you like a hand?”

“No, you mustn’t impede your healing. Stay there, please, I can manage.” 

He did not manage. Dedue rose with care and helped Dimitri extricate himself over a chorus of apologies. Once freed, Dimitri settled on the floor against the bed, wincing when his back touched the wood frame. It felt surprisingly good to stand, so Dedue stayed on his feet next to the prince, who remained lankier and less imposing than he’d seemed in the field. Dimitri shifted and rubbed his free hand along the close-cropped hair above his ear. He looked up at Dedue and grimaced.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know where to begin.”

Dedue shrugged. The prince thought for a moment and smiled, open and genuine. 

“Well, I haven’t introduced myself properly. We could begin there? I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown pri—” he bit off the words with a shudder, looking distressed.

Crown prince of the kingdom that massacred Dedue’s family. Crown prince of the kingdom that left Duscur in ruins.

The crown prince of Faerghus picked at the edge of his cast. Finally, he managed a weak smile. 

“Dimitri. Just Dimitri, please.”

“Dedue Molinaro.” His friends would be baffled by his reticence.

“It is a pleasure…” Dimitri frowned and closed his eyes. He took a few deep, pained breaths and met Dedue’s curious gaze. “I apologize, that isn’t true, and I shouldn’t pretend otherwise. Please understand, I am very glad to meet you, but I am also sorry, Dedue — for everything, but especially for failing to stop what happened to your people. ”

Dedue wasn’t sure how he was expected to react. It felt like a betrayal to accept the apology. 

“Dedue, may I you ask a question?” 

Dedue almost smiled. “Are people allowed to decline when the prince wants to know something?”

“Recently, what I want doesn’t seem to matter.” Ominous clouds shadowed Dimitri’s face until he sighed and made a visible effort to clear them. “Let me try that again. You shouldn’t feel any obligation to answer me, truly. Of course if you want to know anything, anytime, please ask, and I’ll be glad to tell you what I can.

“If you would be comfortable talking about it, I didn’t expect you to understand me. I have always wanted to learn the Duscuri language, but there aren’t many opportunities in Fhirdiad. Did you learn Fódlandic in school?”

“Not at school, no.” Dedue eased himself to the floor where they could be at the same level, taking note of which bones and muscles complained the loudest. “Hmm. Tell me, how does magic work in Faerghus?”

“Oh dear, magical theory is well beyond me — I would be lucky if I could heal a minor scrape. Truthfully, my blood’s known for inflicting wounds, not treating them.” Dimitri’s voice faded as he finished his sentence and studied the seared skin on his hands. He touched a tentative fingertip to one of the burns and suppressed a gasp, his complexion turning even whiter. 

“Are healers all trained the same?” Dedue considered the treatment he’d received earlier, which felt more rudimentary than the various healings he’d given and received at home.

“More or less, yes.” Dimitri had recovered but glared at his hands as if they’d betrayed him. “White magic is so highly valued across the kingdom that the Church of Seiros makes an effort to identify budding talents among children, noble and commoner alike, to train them as priests and bishops. The best ones wind up on battlefields. We have centuries-old epics devoted to holy knights whose spells determined the outcomes of entire military campaigns.” 

“So in Faerghus, magic is similar to a set of trade skills that anyone can learn, to some degree?” 

“That’s the general idea, though again, I wouldn’t trust my answers on anything besides the most basic principles. I believe when I was about ten, my friends, Felix and Sylvain, dared me to try one of the simplest reason spells we knew. At that very moment, a mysterious fire broke out in the orchards, the cause of which remains unknown to this day.” His eyes glinted mischievously.

“Interesting.” Dedue pursed his lips, searching for an explanation. “In Duscur, magic simply  _ is _ . It’s almost elemental, like air or water, flowing through the world whether or not people are present. The way I understand, some part of our connection to magic derives from the land itself. And no two people develop the same way; any individual’s abilities are half-taught, half-discovered. My sister was the enchanter in the family, so she could have explained this better…”  Did people cry in Faerghus?

Tentatively, carefully, Dimitri planted his words. “Languages are your magical ability, then? That’s amazing.”

Dedue nodded, unable to speak. They stayed quiet for some time, until Dimitri dragged himself up and limped towards the door, picking absently at a scab on his face.

“I’m not sure what day it is, but however long we’ve been back, you must be hungry?” 

He waited for Dedue’s response; when none came, he stretched to his full height with a stifled groan, opened the door and spoke to someone in the hall using a tone that sounded more like the boy from the battlefield. Dimitri’s posture became increasingly tense as the exchange progressed, while Dedue thought about Safiya and wondered if he would ever feel like eating again.

“Thank you for your time,” Dimitri snapped, bringing Dedue back from his thoughts. The prince huffed and slammed the door, splintering the frame. “Ah, sorry about that.” Dimitri looked chagrined. “I probably need to explain the Crest system before long.”

“We learned the basics in Duscur. The way you lifted me during the attack…?”

“Yes, that’s one part of it.” Neither youth mentioned the more gruesome aspects that helped keep them alive when they met.

Dedue had heard other things about Crests. Duscuri ancestors with Faerghan partners, whose descendants were whispered to display unparalleled athleticism, self-healing or other extraordinary traits by the time they could walk. Sporadic stories of children with powers who disappeared with their families when rumors reached ears beyond Duscur’s borders.

Dimitri glared at the battered door. “Apparently my uncle ordered the guards to ‘ensure our safety’ by keeping us cooped up in here. They’re asking the kitchen about something to eat, although from what I’ve heard about Duscur, Faerghus cuisine will be a disappointment.”

“Your uncle is the kingdom’s regent, correct?”

“Yes, but let’s not talk about him just yet — I don’t think the furniture would survive that conversation.” Dimitri smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Unfortunately, the older I am, the harder it is for me to sneak around undetected, so I’m afraid we may be stuck here until the...until my father’s funeral.”

Dedue contemplated their shared orphanhood, but he was still in a room that was Dimitri’s, in a palace that was Dimitri’s, in a homeland that was Dimitri’s. They lapsed back into silence, and Dimitri paced the floor with tentative, stiff steps until they heard a soft tapping outside. After a brief skirmish with the misaligned door, an obsequious servant shouldered through bearing a silver tray. He executed a skillful bow to the prince, ignored Dedue’s existence, set their food on the desk, and whisked away without a word.

“Rufus appears to have replaced my staff,” Dimitri said in a toneless voice. “I wonder what other changes await me.”

_ Staff?  _ Every time the prince spoke, it brought a new revelation that left Dedue reeling. Grief and vigilance would have to share space for him to navigate such unfamiliar terrain.

Dedue stood in an effort to prevent Dimitri from resolutely tackling the tray with one good arm. He returned with the meal and placed it carefully on the rug between them, where Dimitri wordlessly picked up the lone ceramic teacup and scrutinized the single plate with its set of fine silverware.

“They must have misheard the request,” he finally said, unable to meet Dedue’s eyes. 

“I’m sure that’s what happened.” Did he say it to make Dimitri feel better, or to convince himself?

“Go ahead, please.”

“You should eat, too,” Dedue frowned. “Aren’t you hungry?"

Dimitri seemed to think hard about his answer. “A little.” He reached for a slice of toast and inspected the warm bread like it was a foreign object. 

“This is indeed different from Duscuri cooking.” Dedue examined a congealed beige lump that was either overcooked porridge or spoiled lard. 

“I used to love the food here.” Dimitri regarded the meal with a wistful expression.

“Did your palate change with your family’s travels?”

“In a manner of speaking...Hang on, there might be a few spare cups in the room.” Toast in hand, he clambered to his feet and disappeared around the other side of the bed.

Dedue considered the space in full. Stacks of books teetered on the desk, and the corners of the room were strewn with piles of papers. Based on the floor, there either had been or still was a long-haired cat lurking somewhere under the bed. His sister would have been right at home in the mess. 

“Aha!” Dimitri popped back around the bed, sans bread, proudly displaying a cup with a broken handle and a tannin stain in its base that he wiped out with a spare corner of the sheet. Dedue assented politely and refrained from slapping the cup out of the future king’s hand when Dimitri filled it to the brim and took a triumphant sip. Maybe the phantom cat would take care of the abandoned toast. Or the inevitable mice. 

It was an absurd but welcome distraction, taking afternoon tea with the prince of Faerghus on his floor rug. The food was overcooked and under-seasoned; nevertheless, he had to restrain himself from consuming everything on the tray, leaving what he hoped was a reasonable amount for Dimitri to work on when his appetite reemerged. 

Tendrils of steam rose from the cups cradled in their hands, filling the room with chamomile and rose hips. Dedue scrolled through the many thoughts he longed to express and selected an emotion that felt safe to share. 

“I was sorry to hear about your parents. We all were.”

Dimitri’s jaw clenched. “There is no need to apologize. Your people had nothing to do with the ambush.” 

“How do you know that?” Dedue chose his words deliberately, kept the surface waters tranquil and still while currents churned out of sight. 

“Because I watched them disappear with my mother and take my father’s head from his shoulders. I froze when they cut down my best friend’s brother for trying to protect me.” Dimitri shuddered. “I saw everything. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop seeing it.”

Dedue’s ears rang with meteors that screamed from the sky. “Me neither,” he whispered. 

“It is an awful experience to have in common.” Dimitri dropped his head onto his knees.

Dedue remembered what the town scouts reported finding in the mountains. “You are the only one left.”

“As are you.” 

The day eroded minute by minute.

Dimitri broke the quiet at last. “I saw what happened, Dedue, and Duscur was a scapegoat. Faerghus can never atone for what we did to you. As king, I will carry that sin for the rest of my life. Meanwhile, the monsters who killed my family are also living free, and I’m as powerless to bring them to justice as I was to prevent the retaliation.” 

Thoughts swirled in a danse macabre. The mercurial prince of Faerghus believed in Duscur’s innocence, but Duscur had been wiped from the map anyway. The prince of Faerghus lost his family, too, but there would still be a funeral and people to attend it. The prince of Faerghus saved Dedue’s life, but this life was someone else’s, a stranger he didn’t recognize. 

What now?

“I do not know,” Dimitri replied. 

Dedue blanched, realizing he’d asked the question aloud. 

Time dripped down like water on stone.

  
  


At dawn, Dedue awoke to find Dimitri curled on one of the room’s deep window ledges. The sunrise softened Fhirdiad’s worn facades while Dimitri pointed out different parts of the city. 

“That tall spire is the cathedral for the Church of Seiros, and there’s usually a Sunday market down there, where the river curves south. You can almost see the school of sorcery — it’s next to the pegasus yards. Oh, and see the oak grove? My friend Sylvain says it’s the best spot to take a girl when you want to be alone with her and I am so sorry, I have no idea why I’m telling you that,” Dimitri stammered.

Maybe it was because they were both sleep-starved, but Dedue relaxed enough to let a chuckle escape watching the prince’s face turn the color of a robin’s breast. Dimitri tried to look outraged before he lost his composure and snorted in a most un-princely manner, which triggered a mutual giggling fit. Dimitri burst into full-throated peals of laughter, and they subsided into snickers until he pulled himself together and grew serious again.

“Grand Duke Fraldarius came by last night while you were asleep. He should be here today for you to meet him. I’m best friends with his son, Felix, so Rodrigue is more uncle to me than my father’s brother.”

The volatile visitor. Dedue nodded as if the names meant nothing.

“The archbishop of the Church of Seiros arrived in Fhirdiad yesterday to preside over our funerals. I was too young to recall my mother’s service, but from what I know they can be lengthy affairs. We must permit the kingdom’s nobles an opportunity to demonstrate the depth of their grief in public, after all.” He scowled with derision.

In Duscur, Dedue knew, there would be a year of mourning and grief support punctuated by more formal gatherings before a final week of ceremonies for mourners to release their dead and return to living. He hadn’t been old enough to participate in many of the rituals, and he didn’t have the things he needed to perform the rites he remembered.

Dimitri had turned back to the window, absently tracing a finger through the fog his breath left on the pane, when a firm rap from the hall made him jump. The crooked door opened, and a tired-eyed, raven-haired man entered with a delicate silver circlet in his hands. A bruise shadowed his jaw when he smiled at Dimitri.

“Good morning, Your Highness. I hope you rested well.”

“Oh, Rodrigue! I didn’t expect you so early. Please, let me introduce you to Dedue Molinaro.” Dimitri disembarked from the window ledge, still looking unsteady on his feet. “Dedue, this is Grand Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius, the right hand of the king.”

“I am glad to see you up and about, Dedue, even under these circumstances.” The duke resembled a coastal cypress: dignified, wind-torn and weary. He inclined his head, and Dedue wondered if he should do the same.

“Thank you, grand duke.” The title felt clunky in his mouth. Faerghus formality would take some getting used to.

“Is it already time to go? And do I have to wear that today?” Dimitri crossed his arms like a shield, wincing as he tucked his scarred fingers under his biceps.

“Your father would be proud to see you in it, highness.” 

“Yes, I suppose he would,” the prince said softly. He reluctantly settled the circlet on his head, avoiding the mirror. “Goddess, I did not consider this when I cut my hair. I must look ridiculous.”

“Surely no one will care about how your crown fits during your family’s funeral?” Dedue repressed an urge to fix the circlet, which had slipped over one of Dimitri’s eyebrows. 

Dimitri managed a wan smile. “I wish that was the case, Dedue.”

“We should be on our way. You still need to dress for the service before we go to the chapel.” Rodrigue settled a gentle hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. 

Dedue felt a prick of alarm at the prospect of being left alone for an indeterminate amount of time. The door appeared to have a bolt, so perhaps he could work it into place for a measure of security.

“Give me one moment, Rodrigue? I’ll meet you in the hall.” 

Dimitri waited until the door closed and went straight to his desk, where he snatched up a bone-handled knife.

“Should I lock the door while you’re away?”

“That too,” Dimitri said absently. He thrust the knife handle-first at Dedue. “Here. Keep this on you, and don’t hesitate to use it if anyone tries to enter. I’ll knock like this when I’m back, okay?” He rapped a five-beat pattern on the desk.

“You’re serious?”

“Oh yes,” Dimitri nodded as if this was a normal conversation to have. “With one arm, I should still be able to set the door back in the frame for you to lock it, but I would advise moving that armchair under the handle to be safe.”

Dedue gaped at him, but the prince was heading for the exit.

“You should be fine with everyone at the service, but…” Dimitri paused at the door and fixed him with a grim expression. “I’ve lost a lot of people already. I would prefer not to risk another. Do what you must to protect yourself.” With that, he left the room. 

Dedue secured the bolt when he heard the door shift into place. After a moment, he dragged the heavy chair across the floor and settled its back against the wood before he collapsed into the seat with the knife in his hands, his thoughts a tempest. 

1176: Far, far out to sea, no help on the way. Stay afloat. Stay alive. The _why_ and the _how_ and the _for what_ weren’t important yet. For now, staying would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: delays two days to give this a proper final review  
> also me: knows damn well I'll still find an error or typo the second I hit "publish"
> 
> The next chapter may be a couple days behind schedule because we're fucking off to the woods for a few days and the internet isn't invited.


End file.
